Yron dropped the bark into the mugs and waited as it bubbled and spat.
‘You’ll be fine, Ben,’ he said. ‘You’ve broken nothing. It hurts like hell but I can numb the pain later. For now I have to clean it. That’ll sting but you’ll know it’s doing the job, right?’
The commentary was as much for Yron as it was for his frightened lieutenant. Yron stared up at the sky, seeing the smoke trailing up into the canopy. The cloud had disappeared and strong light was shining down, bringing with it humidity and heat. He was aware they’d have to try and move soon. The smoke, while keeping away the flies, was a beacon for any watching TaiGethen and their silent ClawBound brethren.
When he’d waited as long as he could, Yron took the mugs from the tripod and placed them by Ben. He cut the remnants of Ben’s trouser legs away, took a deep breath at what he saw and gave the stricken man a reassuring smile.
‘It’s not so bad,’ he said.
‘Liar,’ replied Ben. ‘Sir.’
Yron hooked a piece of cloth from a mug with a stick, let it cool a little in the air, then dropped it into his hands where he balled it up.
‘Try not to cry out,’ he said gently. ‘I have to do this.’
He began to clean the right leg, beginning at the foot. At the first touch of the infused cloth, Ben tensed and bit down on a scream. Yron pressed on; he really had no choice.
He had no real idea how long he worked. Meticulous and tireless for hour after hour, he cleaned each wound separately, biting his lip as he looked at the torn flesh, the flaps of skin and the deep bite wounds. The right leg was torn to bits. Bone and muscle were exposed and he covered what he could with the makeshift bandages. Perhaps magic could save it but they were far from such help and Ben’s survival chances were already low.
The left leg was better but his buttocks had both taken bites as had hips and lower stomach. Yron cleaned and bandaged, refilled the mugs again and again, kept the fire going and, latterly, made rubiac poultices for himself to try and combat any infection.
Finally, he dressed Ben in the remains of his trousers, helped him back into his leather armour, having used his shirt for bandages too, and sat him up. Ben-Foran was shivering in the heat as the shock of the attack began to set in. It was after midday.
‘We can’t stay here, Ben,’ Yron said, keeping his face close to the boy’s, forcing him to focus. ‘We don’t have to go far but we do have to go. Now I want you to prepare yourself, all right? Think strength, and know I’ll be supporting you. We can still make it.’
‘If you say so, sir,’ said Ben. His face was pale and sheened in sweat.
Yron smiled as best he could. If the infection didn’t get him, the blood loss or the shock just might. He turned from Ben to the fire, noting how the blood was already soaking through the boy’s bandages, and put out the blaze, trying to minimise the smoke as he did so. Ordinarily he’d have hidden the site, the embers and the remnants of the tripod to put off any pursuit, but with the TaiGethen it was pointless. Even without the fire these elves would have enough signs to track them easily.
Yron put his leather jerkin back on and stooped over Ben. ‘Come on, son. One arm around my shoulder, let’s get out of here.’
Gasping in pain, Ben hauled himself up Yron’s body. He leant heavily against the captain, not daring to put his right foot on the ground.
‘You should leave me, sir,’ he said. ‘You could make it on your own.’
‘To what purpose?’ said Yron as they moved slowly off, Ben in a half hop, half drag, wincing at every movement. ‘My duty is to my men. You represent my men.’
‘But—’
‘Decision’s made, Ben. Let me assure you, if I was carrying anything important I’d have left you. But I’m not. So shut up and save your energy for shambling.’
Through his pain Ben-Foran chuckled. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘No problem.’
Chapter 26
The east gates of Xetesk opened on a mild cloud-strewn morning. Three hundred cavalry and mages trotted from the portal, followed by fifteen hundred foot soldiers and dozens of wagons.
At the front of the column, riding with the Xeteskian commander, Chandyr, was Rusau, senior mage and member of the Lysternan delegation. He looked with dismay on the litter of bodies and rags that covered what had once been the refugee camp, now brutally cleared. Carrion birds took to the sky as the horses passed, clouds of flies buzzed angrily over the flesh left to rot and the air was tainted with decay.
‘Look at what you have wrought, Commander Chandyr,’ he said as they rode past. ‘They were human beings and you have driven them away like animals. You killed so many.’
Chandyr looked across at him, no hint of remorse evident. He was a career soldier in his early forties and had seen a great deal of action in the last decade. His face was pockmarked and he sported livid scars on his chin and forehead. Clad in mail-covered leather, he was a ferocious sight and his views were simple.
‘First they were victims, now they are parasites. We have to look to our own problems, not take on other people’s. Dordover is a powerful adversary.’
‘But you could have chosen to help these people cut wood for new homes, plough fields for new plantings. Your blacksmiths’ wagons could have been the forges that made new hope.’
‘Building is preferable to dying in battle,’ said Chandyr, ‘but we have to defend ourselves before we can disperse ourselves across Balaia helping the people. Have you travelled the country in the last season?’
‘No,’ confessed Rusau. ‘My duties kept me in Lystern.’
‘You should talk to the mages who come in. It is true that the Black Wings are feeding the flames of hatred for us but the country is not quite as destroyed as they would have us all believe. There are blacksmiths out there. There are woodmen too. There are builders and farmers. The regeneration of the country must come from within. We as a college army are duty bound to protect our borders.’
‘But this is a fight that can be solved around a table. By reason and discussion. War only feeds the fires of hate. And, after all, the issues are trivial, aren’t they?’
‘The issues do not concern me. The protection of Xetesk does.’
Rusau took a breath. In front of them, the gentle sweep of the Xeteskian mage lands stretched north-east to Lystern and north to Dordover. It was undeniably beautiful. Shades of green dappled the landscape; trees, shrubs, brackens and grasses. And everywhere were splashes of colour as the first spring flowers pushed through the soil, a symbol of the enduring strength of nature.
‘I can stop this,’ said Rusau, and inside he firmly believed that he could.
‘Really?’ asked Chandyr. ‘Like the Dordovan delegation, perhaps? What have they managed so far apart from outrageous demands that do nothing but lighten the mood in the officers’ mess?’
‘It is the nature of negotiation to begin at an unattainable level and settle for compromise.’
‘Compromise!’ Chandyr spat the word. ‘We are defending ourselves from unwarranted aggression.’
‘And Xetesk is blameless in your view?’
Chandyr’s face darkened. ‘You ride at my side because I like you, Rusau. And because my Lord of the Mount, Dystran, wants independent reporting of what we find. But we are not the aggressors. We did not invite this conflict, it was thrust upon us. It is not our forces herding refugees into neighbouring lands. It is not us using innocents as pawns. But we will not stand by and watch it happen. Dordover will not be allowed to encroach on our lands. We will fight to preserve what is ours.’
‘I meant no offence, Commander,’ said Rusau. ‘But when we find the Dordovans I urge you to stand off and let me speak, whether they are on Xeteskian land or not. Words are one thing, significant loss of life is another. When they see you and hear me, they will think again.’