Jenna paused, then said, “I have heard some strange tales regarding her, Brother. That is why I came to Solace to seek out Gerard, who once met her, or so I was told. I will not waste your time asking for details. You must go find her, of course. But is there some way I can be of help?”
“You have done more than enough for me, Mistress. I would be dead by now if it were not for you.”
She laughed. “Brother, I would not have missed this for the world. To think—I fought a Bone Warrior of Chemosh! Dalamar will be quite green with envy.”
Jenna gave his hand a mock slap. “Go find your little god, Brother. I will be fine. I can take care of myself.”
Rhys stood up, but still he hesitated.
Jenna raised her eyebrows. “If you do not leave, Brother, I will begin to think that you consider me a helpless and infirm old lady, and I will be extremely insulted.”
Rhys bowed to her in profound respect. “I think you are a very great lady, Mistress Jenna.”
She smiled in pleasure and waved him away.
“And, Brother,” Jenna called after him, as he was leaving, “I still want that kender-herding dog you promised me!”
As Rhys hastened off, he made a promise to himself that Mistress Jenna should have the finest puppy in Atta’s next litter.
9
By the time Rhys made his way through the gardens and across the front lawn to the street, the town guard had managed to regain some semblance of control. Rhys halted, shocked at the sight of the carnage. The street was littered with bodies, many of them stirring and groaning, but some lying dead. The cobblestones were slippery with blood. The fires had been doused, but the stench of burning stung his nostrils. The guards had blocked off the street and now that the battle had ended, they had their hands full holding back frantic friends and relatives seeking their loved ones.
Rhys did not know where to begin to search for Nightshade and Mina and Atta. He roamed up and down the street, calling Nightshade’s name, calling Mina, calling Atta. There was no answer. Everyone he saw was covered in soot and dirt and blood. He could not tell the identity of a victim simply by looking at the clothes and whenever he saw the body of a kender-sized person lying the street, his heart clogged his throat.
Even as Rhys searched, he did what he could to aid the wounded, though—not being a priest—there was little he could do except offer comfort and ease their fear by assuring them help was on the way.
Ordinarily the wounded would have been taken to the temple of Mishakal, for her priests were skilled in healing. Her temple had been damaged by the fire, however, and the Temple of Majere was opened to the victims, as were the Temples of Habbakuk and Chislev. The priests of many gods worked among the injured, ministering to friend and foe alike, making no distinction.
In this the priests were aided by mystics, who had hastened to the site to offer their help, and with them came the herbalists and physicians of Solace. The bodies of the dead were taken to the Temple of Reorx, where they were laid in quiet repose until family and friends came to undergo the sorrowful task of identifying and claiming them for burial.
Rhys came across the Abbot organizing litter-bearers. Many of the wounded were in dire condition, and the Abbot was exceedingly busy, for lives hung in the balance. Rhys hated to interrupt his work, but he was growing desperate. He had still not found his friends. Rhys was about to take a brief moment to ask the Abbot if he had seen Mina, when he caught sight of Gerard.
The sheriff was splattered with blood and limping from a wound to his leg. A guardsman walked alongside him, pleading with him to seek treatment for his wound. Gerard angrily ordered the man off, telling him to help those who were really hurt. The guardsmen hesitated, then—seeing the sheriff’s baleful expression—returned to his duties. Once the man was gone and Gerard thought no one was watching, he sagged against a tree, drew in a deep and shivering breath and closed his eyes and grimaced.
Rhys hurried to his side. Hearing footfalls coming toward him, Gerard abruptly straightened and tried to walk off as though nothing was the matter. His injured leg buckled beneath him and he would have fallen, but Rhys was there to catch him and ease him to the ground.
“Thank you, Brother,” said Gerard grudgingly.
Ignoring Gerard’s insistence that the wound was merely a scratch, Rhys examined the gash in Gerard’s thigh. The cut was deep and oozing blood. The blade had sliced through the flesh and muscle and perhaps cracked the bone. Gerard winced as Rhys’ fingers probed, and he swore softly beneath his breath. His intense blue eyes glinted more with anger than with pain.
Rhys opened his mouth to start to shout for a priest. Gerard didn’t wait to hear him, however.
“If you say one prayer, Brother,” Gerard told him, “if you utter one single holy word, I’ll shove it down your throat!”
He gasped in agony and leaned back against the tree, groaning softly.
“I am a monk of Majere,” Rhys said. “You need not worry. I do not have the gift of healing.”
Gerard flushed, ashamed of his outburst. “I’m sorry I shouted at you, Brother. It’s just that I’m fed up to here with your gods! Look at what your gods have done to my city!”
He gestured to the bodies lying in the street, to the clerics moving among the wounded. “Most of the evil done in this world is done in the name of one god or the other. We were better off without them.”
Rhys could have responded that much good was done in the name of the gods, as well, but this was not the time to enter into a theological argument. Besides, he understood Gerard. There was a time Rhys had felt the same.
Gerard eyed his friend, then heaved a sigh. “Don’t pay any attention to me, Brother. I didn’t mean what I said. Well, not much. My leg hurts like hell. And I lost some good men today,” he added grimly.
“I am sorry,” Rhys said. “Truly sorry. Sheriff, I hate to trouble you now, but I must ask. Did you”—Rhys felt his throat go dry as he asked the question—“did you see Nightshade anywhere—”
“Your kender friend?” Gerard shook his head. “No, I didn’t see him, but that doesn’t mean much. It was sheer bloody chaos out there, what with the smoke and fire and those horrible undead fiends slaughtering every person they came across.”
Rhys sighed deeply.
“Nightshade’s got more sense than usual for a kender,” Gerard said. “Is Atta with him? That dog’s smarter than most people I know. He’s probably back at the Inn. It’s chicken and biscuit night you know—”
He tried to grin, but he drew in a sharp breath and rocked back and forth, swearing under his breath. “That hurts!”
The best place for Gerard would in be one of the Temples, but Rhys knew how that suggestion would be received.
“At least let me help you back to the Inn, my friend,” Rhys suggested, knowing Gerard would be in safe hands with Laura to care for him. Gerard agreed to this, and he reluctantly allowed Rhys to help him to his feet.
“I have a recipe for a poultice that will ease the pain and allow the wound to heal cleanly,” Rhys told him, putting his arm around him.
“You won’t whip a prayer into it, will you, Brother?” Gerard asked gruffly, leaning on his friend.
“I might say a word or two to Majere on your behalf,” Rhys replied, smiling. “But I’ll make sure you don’t hear me.”
Gerard grunted. “Once we reach the Inn, I’ll put out the word about the kender.”
They had gone only a short distance when it became clear that Gerard could not continue without more help than Rhys could give him. Gerard was by this time too weak from loss of blood weak to put up a fight, and Rhys summoned assistance. Three stout young men came immediately to his aid. Hoisting Gerard onto a cart, they drove him to the Inn and carried him up the stairs to a room. Laura bustled about, fussing over him, helping Rhys make the poultice, cleaning and bandaging his wound.