The kender would have gone their own way, no matter how much breath he used calling them back.
Imsaffor Whistletrot was the first to find Zephros’s body. He called to Elderdrake, who was contemplating the wake of the retreating attackers, a manor-broad expanse of trampled ground strewn with bodies, parts of bodies, and everything those bodies or their living comrades had been carrying when they advanced, but had dropped when they died or retreated.
Under other circumstances, the two kender would have found the debris a treasure trove for handling. Whistletrot, however, had never felt less like handling anything in his life. He wondered if that reluctance, in a kender, was a sign of impending old age.
Zephros lay facedown. The kender recognized his armor, but turned him over to be sure. They looked at the staring eyes and the ghastly spear wounds in belly and back, then looked away.
Whistletrot knew he had spent whole waking minutes constructing elaborate fantasies of how Zephros would look when he was dead. He had even imagined how he and his friend would feel when Edelthirb’s debt was paid in full.
Now Zephros looked neither happy nor sad, angry nor peaceful. He merely looked-absent was the word that came to Whistletrot’s mind, after considerable pondering.
Since Zephros was absent, he would never hurt kender or anyone else again.
Whistletrot realized that he was rather relieved not to be responsible for Zephros’s absence.
He turned back to the breach, thinking Sir Pirvan might be interested in hearing the news, and sincerely trying to think of a way of saying it quickly.
Before he could do that, however, the loudest clap of thunder yet rolled over the battlefield. Then, from clouds that had more black than gray, rain began to fall.
By the time Pirvan descended from the breach to organize a mounted scouting party, the rain was pouring down so hard he could barely see across the courtyard. He did not really mind the poor vision, however. On his way to the breach, he had passed Grimsoar One-Eye’s body, and would be as happy not to see it again until it had been decently laid out.
Except that the body was no longer there. At least it was not where Pirvan had seen it. The dead were lying where they fell, for now, as the healers worked on the wounded.
If it had been Grimsoar, and he had been picked up-
Pirvan ignored a commander’s need for dignity and sprinted for the healers’ quarters, armor and all.
He found Grimsoar on a pallet in a corner reserved for the mortally hurt. From the size of the roughly dressed wound in the big thief’s chest, Pirvan did not quarrel with the verdict. The wound must have gone into his good lung, and with one lung decayed and the other destroyed, there could be little hope for him.
“Hello,” Grimsoar said. At least Pirvan was able to translate the wheezes and gasps into that word.
The knight said nothing, merely gripping his old friend’s hand.
Grimsoar took a deep breath and managed to form words. “Serafina and I-we started a baby. Last month. Take care of it. Promise!”
“You don’t even need to ask. But don’t be sure you won’t be dancing at the babe’s name-day celebration.”
“Won’t-won’t dance unless-unless you’re there. So-be careful. Waste to give up being-good thief-for dead knight.”
Grimsoar did not speak after that, but when Pirvan rose to go the older man was still breathing. Also, a dwarf with a load of vials and bags hooked to a leather harness was making his way toward Grimsoar.
“Tarothin and Sirbones, they both have hands full,” the dwarf said with a dreadful accent as well as poor diction. “I come help you friend.”
Pirvan looked at the dwarf, who was short even for one of his race and not particularly clean, either. However, he had to be better than nothing, even if he spoke the common tongue like a gully dwarf.
“Just as long as you don’t make him worse-”
“How make worse? No help, he die. Help, maybe live.”
Which was, though ill-phrased, an exceedingly cogent reply.
Pirvan walked away, hoping the mounted scouts could be on their way before the battlefield turned to a marsh and all the gullies to streams. As far as he could tell, a good half of the attacking host had withdrawn from the field in good order. A scouting party with mired horses might tempt them to strike another blow.
For this and other reasons, Pirvan was leading the scouts himself.
Darin and Rynthala sat on one of the last bales of fodder, in the nearly empty stables. Nearly every horse left to Belkuthas was outside now, waiting for the scouts to mount.
Rynthala would be leading the scouts, along with Sir Pirvan. Darin would remain behind, as commander of Belkuthas along with Threehands. So the chance of battle might yet silence forever words that Rynthala wanted to say or hear said now.
“You are very quiet, Darin,” she said.
“I can be silent or speak, at your command.”
“You give much thought to others, in spite of your own burdens.”
Darin’s face twisted. “What are my burdens, compared to yours? I have long forgotten my blood kin. You have seen both your parents die before your eyes.”
“I have not had to endure any dishonor, among kin or comrades.”
“Not even Tharash?”
“I told you, I think he had intentions that were no dishonor to him. I think he carried them out today. He killed Carolius Migmar, or I’m an irda.”
“You are as fair as they were said to be,” Darin said. He ventured to stroke her hair. His touch was light, but held no shyness. “Fortunately you are not mythical or long-lost, as well.”
The moment stretched out, until delight turned to a pain that reminded Rynthala horribly of a bad toothache. Something had to be said, to end this moment and its pain. Darin, it seemed, was not going to say it. The burden therefore fell to her.
Rynthala coughed. “Darin. I do not know if there are any Solamnic customs that forbid-that forbid-”
Her stammering finally seemed to spur Darin into speaking. “That forbid our being wed?”
“Yes. Darin, could you bring yourself to take as your bride a-what I am?”
“I can very easily see my way to wedding the most splendid and lovable woman I have ever known.”
None of the kisses that followed were at all chaste, and the embrace only ended when several dwarves clearing up rubble started making rude remarks. Even then, Rynthala sat on Darin’s lap, her head on his shoulder, until the dwarves started singing.
It was a dwarven wedding song that Rynthala recognized. Her mother had once translated it for her, when she was telling her daughter about the ways of man and woman. It went into considerable detail about the wedding night, and Rynthala thought the dwarf who wrote the words must have been either very lucky or extremely optimistic.
Perhaps that was not altogether unreasonable. Certainly she felt the same way now.
She hoped that her parents’ spirits were not far away and could have seen and heard her and Darin.
The forest was as dark and wet as an underground river or an Istarian sewer, except when lightning flared overhead. Then it became as bright as day-and the crash of thunder battled with the shrill neighing of uneasy horses.
It was Pirvan’s opinion that the scouts might have some trouble finding anything, and much trouble fighting it if they did. The people they sought, however, might well be sitting snug under their cloaks, behind bushes and trees, waiting to leap out and reverse the verdict of the day’s fighting.
They could not do this completely. Migmar’s host had departed Belkuthas in such haste that it had abandoned the siege engines, which the dwarves were busily reducing to firewood and scrap iron. Zephros’s men had even abandoned their camp, leaving everything they had not carried into battle.