Gar! Where was the man? Dead? Enslaved? For that matter, where was Gianni? He rolled painfully up on one elbow, blinking through pain, out over a landscape of churned mud under a drizzling rain. He shivered, soaked through, and saw nothing about him but …
The huge, inert body, lying crumpled on its side, face slanting down, almost in the mud, with the huge bloom of ragged, bloody scalp in the midst of his hair—Gar, stripped of his doublet and hose, of even his boots, left for dead.
Fear gibbered up in Gianni, and he struggled through the mud toward his friend. Pain thundered in his head, almost making him stop, but he went on, forced himself to crawl for what seemed an hour but could not have been, for the distance could only have been a few yards. He shivered with numbing cold, feeling the rain beat against his skin …
Skin! He took time for a quick look down and saw that the condotierri had stripped him as they had stripped Gar, nothing left but the linen with which he had girded his loins for the journey. They had left him, too, for dead—but why?
An awful suspicion dawned, and Gianni balanced on one elbow while he raised the other hand to his head, probing delicately at the back … Pain screamed where his fingers touched, and he yanked his fingers away, shivering anew at his answer—he was injured almost as badly as the mercenary, brought down by too strong a blow with a club. Too strong indeed! He struggled toward Gar with renewed vigor, the energy of panic. If the man were dead, and Gianni alone in this savage world … But his fingers touched Gar’s throat; he waited for a long, agonizing minute, then felt the throb of blood through the great artery. Gianni went limp with relief—Gar would recover, would waken, and he wouldn’t be alone in the rain after all.
But the rain was cold, and surely the giant might die of chill if Gianni couldn’t cover him somehow. He looked about him with despair—the condotierri had left nothing, nothing at all, not a shred of cloth …
But there was dried grass by the roadside. Struggling and panting, Gianni squirmed the necessary few feet to the head of hay, then realized it would do no good to return with a single handful. He tried to ignore the pain in his head, the bruises in his ribs, as he pushed himself up to his knees, gathered up an armful of hay, then returned walking on his knees, one hand out to catch himself if he fell, returned to Gar and dumped the load of hay over the big man’s shoulders and chest, though the straw seemed so pitifully inadequate against such a huge expanse of muscle. Gianni leaned on Gar’s shoulder as he tried to tuck a few wisps down to hide the mercenary …
And the eyes fluttered, then opened in a pained squint.
Gianni froze, staring down, almost afraid to believe Gar was waking. But the big man levered himself up enough to raise a trembling hand to his head, then cried aloud at the pain of the touch on the raw wound. Gianni caught his hand and said soothingly, “Gently, gently! Let it heal! You’ll be whole again, but it will take time.”
Gar began to shiver.
“Come,” Gianni urged, tugging at his arm. Slowly, Gar pushed himself upright, then sat blinking about him.
“They struck you on the head,” Gianni said, “and left you for dead. Me, too. They left us both for dead.”
“Us?” The giant turned a look of blank incomprehension on him.
A dreadful suspicion began, but Gianni tried to ignore it as he said, “Us. Me—Gianni Braccalese—and you, Gar.”
“Brock?” Gar frowned, fastening on the one word. “Wh … what Brock?”
Gianni stared at him for a moment, his thoughts racing. Not wanting to believe what he feared, he said, “Not Brock. Gianni.” He pointed at himself, then said, “Gar,” and tapped the big man’s chest.
“Gar.” The giant frowned, turning a forefinger to point at himself, bringing it slowly close enough to touch his own massive pectoral. “Gar.” Then he looked up, turning that finger around to reach out to Gianni, tap his chest. “Who?”
“Gi—” Gianni caught himself just in time, forcing himself to realize what had happened to Gar—that the blow had addled his wits, perhaps knocked them clear out of his head. Hard on that followed the realization that the big man could no longer be trusted to keep a secret, and that Gianni might not want any passing Stilettos to know his own name. He finished the word, but finished it as “Giorgio.” It was too late to call Gar “Lenni” again, now—the poor half—wit would have trouble enough remembering his real name, let alone sort out a false one from a true. “And you’re Gar.”
“Gar.” The giant frowned with as much concentration as he could muster against headache. He touched his own chest, then touched Gianni’s. “Giorgio.”
“Yes.” Gianni nodded his head, and the stab of pain made him wish that he hadn’t. “Right.”
Then he reached out, bracing himself against Gar’s shoulder, and struggled to his feet. He gasped at the spasm of agony and would have fallen if a huge hand hadn’t clamped around his calf and held him upright. When the dizziness passed, Gianni reached down and hauled at Gar’s arm, hoping desperately that the attempt wouldn’t end with them both sliding back into the mud. “Come. We can’t stay here. Soldiers might come.”
“Soldiers?” Gar struggled to his feet, though he needed Gianni to brace him, gasping, as he lurched, trying to regain his balance. He stabilized, gulped air against nausea, then turned to Gianni. “Sojers?”
Gianni felt his heart sink, but explained. “Bad men. Hurt Gar.” Confound it, he thought, I sound as though I’m talking to a five-year-old!
But he was—for the time being, Gar had only as much mind as a child. Pray Heaven it wouldn’t last!
“Come.” Gianni took his arm, turning away, and tugged. Gar followed, as docile as a five-year-old indeed …
No. More docile—like a placid ox, who didn’t really care where he went, as long as he was fed.
He would have to find food, Gianni realized—but first, he had to get Gar away from this place. It was exposed, the condotierri might come back to ambush another goods train—or the mountaineers might come for the condotierri’s leavings. Gianni led Gar away, but found himself wishing the giant would balk, would object, would say anything to indicate he still had a mind.
He didn’t.
CHAPTER 7
It was a long, pain-racked afternoon. Every muscle, every nerve, screamed at him to lie down and never get up, but he couldn’t; he was possessed by a morbid fear of that horrible patch of churned mud where he had almost given up on life, and his friend had almost been murdered—the friend who now stumbled along, towed by the arm, shambling like some great, half-wakened, befuddled bear. A feeling of doom seized Gianni, and try as he might, he couldn’t shake the conviction that he and Gar would die here, in the mountain wilderness, cold and alone. Yes, there was the chance that they might find help—but only a chance, and a slim one at that.
Finally, trembling with exhaustion, Gianni knew he could go no farther. He looked about, feeling panic bubbling up as he tried to find some vestige of shelter—and saw a huge old tree, far larger than was usual so high up, lying on its side. It had been torn up by some winter’s storm, and its roots hung out on every side, forming a natural cave. Gianni steered Gar toward it.
As they came in under the rootlet-laden ceiling, Gianni realized it was a better cave than he had thought, for the bottom of the trunk was hollow. He went in as far as he could, far enough so that the two of them were quite hidden from sight, and sank down onto the wooden surface with a groan of relief—even greater relief than he had thought, for the surface under him was covered with the soft crumbling of rotted wood, a virtual bed of it, fallen from the ceiling and the walls. Gianni threw himself out upon it full length, still cold and wet, but mercifully sheltered. There was even water, for a small pool had formed from drips through a hole in the trunk above. Gianni leaned over and drank greedily, then remembered Gar and turned to offer a drink, but the giant had found a pool of his own, and knelt with his face upturned, catching a steady stream of drops on his tongue. His head almost brushed the top of their hiding place. Satisfied as to his health, Gianni turned back to lie, cold and miserable, waiting for death or sleep to take him, and finding that he didn’t really care which came first.