“We lost a half-dozen-more than I would have wished, but it happens.” Fornal inclined his head to Huruc, then eased his mount toward the right, and the corral. The angels let their mounts follow. Fornal reined up by the unwalled but roofed shelter at the north end of the corral where the mounts of the senior armsmen and officers were kept.
Nylan and Ayrlyn dismounted as well, tying their mounts. They could unsaddle and groom them later.
“We’ll start on the wounded immediately,” Nylan said to Fornal.
“Each one you save will live to kill another white demon,” said the regent. “I have heard that your healing is without peer in Candar. Let us trust you can heal many.”
“That depends on their wounds,” Ayrlyn answered.
“Do what you must.”
Neither angel said anything as they recrossed the practice yard.
“Tonsar?” Nylan said quietly, stopping for a moment and looking up at the mounted subofficer.
“Ser?”
“That was very thoughtful of you to draw up the men to welcome ser Fornal. I should have thought of it, but I am glad you did.”
“I would be a poor subofficer, ser, if there were some matters I did not know more of than you.” Tonsar grinned.
“All right.” Nylan had to grin back. The grin vanished as he thought about the wounded. “Run them through the last exercise again. Then, have them groom their mounts before dinner. We’re going to be busy doing some healing.”
The burly subofficer nodded.
As they neared the barn, Ayrlyn reached out and squeezed Nylan’s hand. “I know you wanted to kill Fornal, but thank you.”
“For what? Being sensible? For ignoring his setup? If we don’t save them all, we’ve failed?”
“Of course.”
The six wounded armsmen lay on pallets barely raised off the dirt floor by worn and filthy planks.
The first man sat on his pallet cradling an arm. Another man stood beside him, shaking his head. “He won’t let us touch him.”
“No butchery! No…” Sweat poured off the dusty and muddy forehead, but the armsman did not look up.
“Do we have splints?” Nylan murmured. “Or something like them?”
“Haven’t seen any.” Ayrlyn turned to the uninjured man. “Get us two lengths of straight wood, about the width of a blade and no longer than his forearm-and some strips of cloth.” She paused. “Actually, get us about a dozen lengths of wood like that.”
“Yes…ser.” The man scurried away.
“We’re not-” began Nylan.
“You’re not cutting off my arm! I’ll die first.”
“We’re not cutting off anything,” Nylan said gently.
“Then you be no healers I know.”
“No, we’re not. We’ll be back in a bit. And you’ll keep your arm.” Nylan could sense that the break was a compound sort of thing, but within the capabilities of healing through the fields-if done soon.
They moved to the second man-young, with a scraggly blond beard and rosy cheeks. A dirty bandage covered a deep gash in his shoulder, and the slump of his body and the pain in his eyes warned Nylan.
“Deep thrust and some broken bones,” murmured Ayrlyn.
Nylan could feel the chaos of infection, although it was not great, not yet.
“Two of us,” said Ayrlyn, “but we can do it. Let’s check the others first, quickly.”
The third man was already dead from internal bleeding of some sort.
They exchanged glances, then moved to the next.
“Crushed bones in the hand” was Ayrlyn’s verdict. “Maybe we can get back some function.”
The fifth patient looked blindly past them, his breathing ragged, the white of chaos already filling most of his body.
The sixth man had a deep bruise/cut/gash across the top of his right thigh, open almost to the bone. An older armsman waited there, holding loops of gut or thread or something, and a needle in his hand.
“I can close it, but the chaos would kill him.”
Nylan smiled. “This one-this will be easy.”
“Such a deep wound…” The voice lowered. “Most die.”
“He’ll live,” Ayrlyn said.
“He is my sister’s consort.”
“Shouldn’t we try…the way you did with Nesslek?” the redhead asked Nylan.
“For around the infection, but it’s not quite the same.”
She nodded. “Still…”
Nylan extended his perceptions, joining them with Ayrlyn’s, and discovered some infection/chaos, but had no trouble in forcing it out, knitting a sort of barrier that bound the white chaos away and around the wound. The young man looked at them stolidly.
Ayrlyn touched his forehead, and the armsman’s eyes closed. “Now…stitch up the wound.”
“Yes, lady healer.”
Again, after the stitches were knotted, the two pushed away the remaining chaos in the wound and stitched area.
“We’ll have to keep doing this,” she pointed out.
“If we do it daily, it won’t take much.”
They straightened. A man stood in the shadows, holding lengths of wood.
“Now…for the broken bones.” They walked back toward the first man, who watched them, fear and sweat pouring from him.
In the end, they staggered out of the makeshift infirmary.
“Four out of six…not too bad,” mumbled Ayrlyn.
“That’s malpractice…on Heaven,” said Nylan.
“Miracle…here.” Ayrlyn coughed, pushing Nylan toward the cookfires. “We need to eat.”
Nylan agreed, and he followed Ayrlyn’s steps toward the small fire at the end where the officers got served.
“Did you heal Gerrit, ser angel?” asked the cook, who thrust half a loaf of black bread on Ayrlyn’s trencher.
Ayrlyn looked blankly at the red-bearded man.
“Blond fellow. Looked like his forearm was smashed.”
“He’ll heal. Be some eight-days, but he’ll be fine.”
Another man, balding and breathing heavily, stepped up. “What about Giste? He was the big fellow.”
“I’m sorry.” Nylan took a deep breath. “He was dead before we even got there.”
“How many will live? Any of them?” asked the balding man.
“Four. The one with the smashed hand probably won’t hold a blade well, but he’ll keep the hand.” Ayrlyn turned and walked unsteadily toward the dwelling that served as quarters and headquarters.
“Why not Giste?” pursued the armsman behind Nylan.
“Because the damned blade shredded his guts, and even the best healer can’t unshred a chopped intestine.” Nylan turned to follow Ayrlyn.
“Don’t push it, Delman,” cautioned a voice behind the angel. “We’re darkness lucky we got any healers at all.”
Nylan carried his wooden trencher toward the dwelling, and the shaded side porch on the east side.
Fornal already sat on one of the stools on the side porch and chewed on a chunk of greasy mutton-all the meat was mutton, and the animals were slowly vanishing, Nylan reflected, doubting if the remaining strays and abandoned flocks would be enough to last the summer. Then, would they and the Lornians survive the summer, once the Cyadorans decided to act?
Huruc just sat on the top step, chewing noisily.
The angel smith stepped around the senior armsman and sat down on the other end of the bench from Ayrlyn, and after a bite of the tough bread, forced himself to take a bite of the mutton. It was greasy-and strong.
“It’s pretty fierce,” Ayrlyn said with a smile. “But it helps.”
“These are good rations,” suggested Huruc. “Times have been, in the grasslands, where we had only moldy cheese and roots-the wild onions.”
“I’d prefer they not get any worse,” answered Nylan.
“So would all the men,” said Huruc, his mouth half-full. He swallowed and asked, “How did your healing go, angels?”
“Four of them should live, three to carry a blade,” answered Ayrlyn.
“That’s good,” said Huruc. “Most usually die.”
“I had heard that the angel healers could heal almost all,” said Fornal mildly.
“I’m sure the Marshal of Westwind wishes that were true,” Nylan answered blandly, after too long a pause to think of a suitable answer. “There would be three times as many guards there, if it were so.”