Later, he realized he could have asked one of the young, hale sentries outside the door to retrieve the little bottle. That was later. At the moment, only two thoughts went through his head: I need the drug and I can do it myself, gods damn it. Mutilated or not, he remained as stubborn in his pursuit of independence as did the northern kingdom Geoffrey ruled.
And so Bell made his slow way over to the iron-framed cot on which he slept. He eased himself down till he was sitting on the floor beside it. Propping his crutches carefully against the cot, he stretched out at full length and began an inchworm’s progress toward the laudanum.
In fact, his progress was more like that of an inchworm which had been stepped on but wasn’t quite dead. Crawling didn’t go well, not with one good arm and one leg with which to work. He tried to roll, but his ruined left shoulder let out a horrible shriek at the very idea. He ended up hitching forward again and again while lying on his right side.
He felt like shouting when his questing fingers closed on the little bottle. He drew the cork with his teeth and poured down a long draught-a draught that would have sent him into oblivion a few months before. But his tolerance was more than it had been; even such a heroic dose took its own sweet time bringing him relief.
As always, the laudanum made him feel as if he were floating on air. But whatever he felt, in truth he remained on the floor. He had to hitch his way back to the cot in the same fashion he’d used to get the bottle. Then he pulled himself up onto the cot with his good arm. The strength that required was one more thing he didn’t think about. It was just something he had to do, and he did it.
Having done it, he lay there panting for a little while. Then he made one more urgent effort and sat up.
“Oh, by the gods!” he said. He hadn’t been down on a dirt floor for a while, or thought about what moving across one on his side and belly would do to his uniform. It was thoroughly filthy. I’m probably filthy, too, he thought.
He brushed at himself. Dust flew from his tunic and pantaloons in a choking cloud, as if his hand were an army on the road in a summertime drought. After a while, the uniform looked… less grimy than it had. He used his good arm and remaining leg to heave himself upright, then stood swaying till he got the crutches in position under his arms. That done, he went over to a chest of drawers, found a rag, and sat down at a table on which stood a pitcher of water. He wet the rag and daubed at his face. Before long, the rag, which had been white, turned the red-orange of the dirt floor. He dared hope that meant his face took on its normal color and appearance.
His hope was tested as soon as one of the sentries came in. The man didn’t stare or gape or point or exclaim, so Bell supposed he’d made himself at least tolerably presentable once more. You went through all that for the drug? he wondered. But he would have endured worse humiliations for the relief-and the pleasure-laudanum brought him, and he knew it.
“Sir, there’s a colonel of unicorn-riders, a fellow named Biffle, outside who’d like to see you,” the sentry said.
“Oh, good,” Bell said. “Yes, I’ve been expecting him. Send him in, by all means.”
“I’ll do it,” the sentry said. “Don’t you go anywhere, now.”
As if I could, Bell thought as the soldier went outside. Colonel Biffle came in a moment later. He was a tall, solidly made man with a high forehead and a long black beard. He wore a uniform so old and faded, it might almost have been southron gray. Saluting, he said, “Good to see you looking so hale, sir.”
“Thank you.” Bell didn’t feel particularly hale, and doubted he ever would again, but he inclined his head at the compliment. Then he asked, “And how is Ned of the Forest?”
“He’s very fine, thank you kindly, and about two days’ ride east of here with all his riders,” replied Colonel Biffle, who was one of the famous northern officer’s regimental commanders. “We had ourselves a busy time out in the east by the Great River, so we did.”
“Yes, I heard about some of that,” Bell said. “You smashed up a southron army twice your size in Great River Province-”
“Three times our size, sir, easy,” Biffle said with a reminiscent grin. “Smashed ’em up and made ’em run for Luxor with their tails between their legs. And we raided Luxor our ownselves, and almost nabbed the southron general commanding in his bed, but the son of a bitch managed to sneak away in his nightshirt.” He had a rustic northern accent. By all accounts, Ned of the Forest’s was thicker still. But neither Ned’s accent nor his unsavory past as a serfcatcher had kept King Geoffrey from promoting him to lieutenant general, though he’d begun the war as a common soldier.
Bell nodded. “I heard something about that, yes. And I heard something more about your raid down into Cloviston-wasn’t there a place called Fort Cushion, on the Great River?”
“Yes, sir.” Colonel Biffle nodded, too, though his face turned grim. “That was a nasty business. Most of the garrison in the place were blonds. Their officers surrendered them, and then they started fighting again. Can’t have that sort of thing going on. We didn’t leave a whole lot of them alive.”
“I heard bits and pieces about the `Fort Cushion massacre,’ yes-that’s what the southron papers call it, you understand,” Bell said. “If you ask me, the blonds surely had it coming. If they try to face their betters with weapons in their hands, such things will happen.”
Colonel Biffle visibly relaxed. “Glad you see it that way, sir. Ned didn’t give the order to kill the bastards, but I can’t say he was sorry it happened, either.”
“Who could be sorry about getting rid of blonds? We just smashed a couple of regiments of them ourselves,” Bell said, and then got down to business: “You tell me Ned is two days away?”
“That’s right.” Biffle nodded again.
“Excellent, Colonel.” Bell felt as happy as anything but his drugs could make him. “I look forward to his joining us. We’ll show the stinking southrons there’s still life in Geoffrey’s men.”
“Er-yes, sir.” Colonel Biffle coughed a couple of times, then went on, “Uh, sir, Lieutenant General Ned, he asked me to ask you, just what have you got in mind once you put his unicorn-riders together with your army?”
“What have I got in mind?” Bell struck a pose. “I’ll tell you what I’ve got in mind, by the gods. I aim to lift the southrons’ yoke from Franklin, reconquer Ramblerton, sweep down into the province of Cloviston-my home province, I’ll have you know-roll on to the Highlow River, and then, again with the help of the gods, cross the river and attack the town of Horatii in Highlow Province.” That’ll impress him, Bell thought.
But Biffle remained unimpressed. “No, sir,” he said. “Sorry, sir. That’s not what Ned of the Forest had in mind-not even a little bit. What he meant was, what do you aim to do about Brigadier Spinner? The two of them, they purely don’t get along. Lord Ned swore a great oath he’d never fight alongside Spinner again, on account of Spinner stole his best men after the battle by the River of Death. That was one more of Thraxton the Braggart’s nasty little tricks.”
Bell grunted. There lay his glorious vision of northern triumph, shot dead by a petty political squabble. Or perhaps not so petty: he remembered rumors that had slid through the Army of Franklin while he was recovering from his amputation. Now, maybe, he could find out if those rumors held any truth. “Tell me,” he said, “did Ned of the Forest really challenge Count Thraxton to a duel?”
“He did, sir. By the gods, sir, he did. I was standing closer to him than I am to you right now, and I heard it with my own ears,” Biffle answered. “He made the challenge, and Thraxton didn’t have the stones to answer it.”