“No,” said Musfar with a humorless smile. “After due consideration, I think it’s time we returned home.”
Fifteen minutes later, the first longboat rowed alongside, and Abel Adalan climbed to where Musfar waited on deck.
“Cursed Benhoudi got suckered into charging the open gate, instead of following the plan,” he reported. “It was a trap. Most of them were killed. It was such a total disaster, I decided that either there were more islanders than the Narthani had told us about, or the islanders somehow knew we were coming. Either way, I decided the risk to our men too great to continue.” Abel stopped his brief report and looked at his commander and cousin for signs of approval or reproach.
“What of our illustrious Benhoudi? How many of them are left? And is Abulli among them?”
“Maybe thirty. Unfortunately, no Abulli.”
“Unfortunate, indeed. I would have liked to hang him in front of his men for disobeying orders. Oh, well, one can’t have everything.”
Abel glanced around. “Am I missing something, or is there an absence of our Narthani friends?”
“They were so dismayed at today’s events that they decided to swim back to Preddi City. I hope they’ll arrive in due fashion. However, we won’t be able to confirm this, since as soon as all the men are aboard, we’ll go directly to our base camp at Rocklyn, pick up our other ship, load the remaining booty from previous raids and the provisions we set aside for just this eventuality, and set sail for Buldor.”
The Battle of St. Sidryn’s was over.
Chapter 33: Aftermath
The courtyard fighting lasted minutes, and surprisingly, given the ferocity, there were few Keelan casualties: eleven dead and twenty-three seriously wounded.
“Well,” mused Yozef aloud, as his eyes followed the last wounded being taken inside the hospital, “at least this is the place to be wounded, if it has to happen to you. God. Imagine if the wounded were hours or even days away from the medicants.”
While many of the wounds were not immediately life threatening, gruesome results from musket and blade battles were inevitable. Ether was used to quiet victims, while gashes and stab wounds were cleaned, debrided, and sewn closed, and limbs too damaged, amputated. Yozef later learned the medicants used ether to end the suffering of three victims with terminal wounds.
He felt numb as he helped clean up the courtyard. Wagons were brought to the front gate and bodies of the Buldorians stacked onto wagon beds after being stripped of weapons and any useful armor. Yozef couldn’t bring himself to help with the bodies but tried to help gather equipment being saved. This effort lasted until he picked up a sword and found the handle coated with half-dried blood, presumably the owner’s, since the blade was unmarred. He dropped the sword and stared at reddish brownish globs and stains on his hand. His gorge rose, as he staggered to the water trough, then furiously shook his hand in the water and rubbed it against the trough wood, not wanting to touch it with his other hand. When he couldn’t see any more of the raider’s blood, he bolted from the courtyard and lurched out a side gate toward his house. Instead of following the worn and winding path, he aimed straight for home, cutting through brush and trees. Halfway there, his legs gave out, and he sat on a bed of dead leaves under the trees, gasping for breath and shaking.
The sun was up, the morning mist gone, and under the forest canopy he could feel the usual breeze off the ocean. The filtered sunlight made dancing spots on the dry leaves, as their living brethren quivered above. Time passed, while he calmed himself and processed the events. Now what should he do? The planned tasks of the day seemed so trivial. Go home? For what? And the people? What of the people here he knew? Were any of them among the casualties? Carnigan was okay. He saw Filtin helping the wounded. What about Cadwulf? Going down the list brought up the image of Yonkel. Yozef’s eyes watered, but this time he felt mad. Mad at whoever had so savagely taken the boy’s life, mad at the raider’s people, mad at the Caedelli for not protecting the weak, mad at the Watchers for putting him here, mad at the universe, and so mad at a rock he sat next to, he picked it up and hurled it into the brush.
He was unaware of time passing. Finally, he rose, walked back to the abbey complex, and reentered through the same side gate he’d used to flee the carnage site. Would anyone notice he’d left? Would anyone care? People scurried about, attending to various tasks. In the courtyard, the last of the bodies were still being gathered, the stacks of raider weapons and armor piled to one side, and Caedelli working to dismantle the barricade. Many horsemen milled outside the main gate, and a cluster of men huddled near the center of the courtyard. He recognized the abbot, Denes, and a man he thought was Longnor Vorwich, boyerman of this district.
He joined the others as they dismantled the barricade, not knowing where most of the parts originated and looking for something he recognized. A dozen or more men concentrated on the cathedral pews, and he found himself on one end of a pew with another man at the opposite end. About half of the pews were already back in place. Brother Fitham directed their placement, his left arm held to his side by a bloody cloth wrapping, his face pale but determined. Yozef hadn’t realized he was covered in sweat until the coolness inside the cathedral brought on a chill. When they set the pew down, the man on the other end turned. It was Cadwulf.
“Yozef!” the young man exclaimed. “I didn’t see you after the fight! I was worried.”
“I’ve been around. Helping where I could.” Peeing myself and almost puking.
“You’re all right, though? I saw you next to Carnigan, then lost sight of you.”
Yozef was quiet, as they walked back out for another pew. In the noon sunlight, Yozef’s chill faded. They pulled another pew off a line of hay bales.
“How many were killed?” he asked in a detached voice.
“Too many,” Cadwulf replied grimly. “It’s fortunate there weren’t more.” Cadwulf recited names, most of which Yozef didn’t recognize. He did know Yonkel, one of his kerosene lantern workers, and an abbey brother he knew of only by name and appearance, a short, balding man who worked with the livestock. The brother had always had given Yozef a friendly smile when they passed each other. The smile was gone forever, and Yozef wondered idly if the animals would notice they had a new attendant.
He frowned, angry at himself. What was the brother’s name? Christ! I don’t even know what his name was!
He shook himself. “How about the raiders?”
“Looked like at least eighty bodies. Damn their souls to eternal damnation!”
“Where are the bodies going? I saw them being put into wagons.”
“Out to the refuse pits. They’ll be burned down to ash and buried with the rest of the garbage.”
Yozef imaged what served as the garbage dump about a mile farther inland, a natural dry gully where locals dumped refuse, and which accounted for the relative lack of the general odors and decay he had expected from a seventeenth- or eighteenth-century-level settlement. The image of raider bodies being dumped into the gully and then set afire brought up images of World War II concentration camps, though in this case the image was accompanied by satisfaction.
“Did Denes question any wounded raiders? Who are they, and why did they do this?”
“Buldorians,” spat Cadwulf. Yozef’s expression was blank. “Buldorians,” repeated Cadwulf. “From a small country on the Ganolar continent. Pirates, slavers, and anything else you can image. One of them confirmed the Narthani were behind it.”