And as always, as she waited for the survivors to return, the words comforted her not at all.
Daren finished the last of his dispatches, and slumped at the folding desk in his tent, very glad that he’d brought an aide who knew massage. Right now, he was torn equally between a tired elation and a sense of deep and guilty loss.
When the horse-archers had moved in, the shrine went up in a glorious gout of flames, just as he and Kerowyn had planned. And exactly as he and Kero had known it would, the Prophet’s line collapsed in a panic. The only thing they had not predicted was how total the rout would be. But now that he thought about it, the reaction only made sense—Vkandis Sunlord was a god of the sun—hence, fire—and when his own shrine went up in flames, it must have seemed to the Prophet’s followers that the god himself had turned against them.
After that it had been so easy to defeat them that an army of raw recruits could have handled the job. The worst casualties were from men who had gotten between the fleeing Karsites and the Eastern border.
He’d heard that Kerowyn’s people got in and out with about a twenty-five percent loss, which was excellent for such a risky undertaking.
Excellent—except that these aren’t just numbers we’re talking about, or the counters we used to plan strategy with. Those numbers represented people. Kero’s people. Fighters that she’s recruited and trained with, and promised to lead intelligently. He stared at the papers on his desk without really seeing them, knowing how she must be feeling. It wasn’t quite so bad for him, now that he was Lord Martial of the entire army. He didn’t, couldn’t know every man in his forces the way Kero knew every fighter in hers. But he remembered very well how it had felt to lose even one man, back when his commands were smaller.
He stood abruptly. I’ll go see her. It helped me to have old Lord Vaul to unburden myself on. Maybe I can do the same for her. I’m supposed to see if she’s willing to come talk to my brother, anyway. And I can bring her horse-archers a bonus at the same time; gods know they’ve earned it. My coffers are plump enough, I can afford it. “Binn!” he said, not quite shouting, but loud enough for his orderly to hear. The grizzled veteran of a dozen tiny wars slid out of the shadows at the back of the tent, coming from behind the screen that kept his sleeping area private.
The man saluted smartly. “Sir,” he said, and waited for orders. They were not long in coming.
“Saddle my palfrey, and get me—hmm—two gold per head for those horse-archers Captain Kerowyn sent in.” The orderly nodded, and saluted again. “Sir, general funds, or your private coffer?”
“Private, Binn. This is between me and the Captain. If my brother decides on an extra bonus, that’ll be a Crown decision.”
“Sir. Begging the Lord Martial’s pardon, but—they deserve it. Don’t generally see mercs with that kind of guts.” The man’s face remained expressionless, but Daren fancied he caught a gleam of admiration in his eyes. That in itself was a bit of a surprise. Binn seldom unbent enough to praise anyone, and never a mercenary, not to Daren’s recollection.
“No pardon needed. As it happens, I agree with you.” He straightened his papers, and locked them away in the desk, as the orderly moved off briskly to see to his orders.
He mounted up and rode off as the first torches were lit along the rows of tents. He had left his scarlet cloak back in the tent, so there was nothing to distinguish him from any other mounted officer, and the men paid him no particular heed as they went about their business.
The dead had been collected and burned; the wounded were treated and would either live or die. The survivors tended to themselves, now—either celebrating or mourning. Mostly celebrating; even those who mourned could be coaxed into forgetting their losses for an hour or two over the strong distilled wine he had ordered distributed. They’d have wicked heads in the morning, those who were foolish enough to overindulge, but that was all right. If their heads ached enough, it would distract them from the aches of wounds, bruises, and hearts.
He passed over the invisible dividing line between the camp of the army and that of the mercenaries, and was, as ever, impressed by the discipline that still held there, victory or no. Kero’s people still had sentries posted, and he was challenged three times before he reached the camp itself. The Skybolts had lanterns instead of torches, an innovation he noted and made up his mind to copy. Torches were useless in a rainstorm—lanterns could be used regardless of the weather. And lanterns, once set, didn’t need the kind of watching torches did. It was just the kind of detail that set the Skybolts apart from the average mercenary Company.
By the time he reached the actual bounds of the camp itself, word of his coming and who he was had somehow, in that mysterious way known only to soldiers, preceded him. Since he was not in “uniform,” he was hailed only as “m’lord Daren”—but it was obvious from the covert looks at his bulging saddlebag and the grins of satisfaction (or envy, from those who were not archers), that these men knew of his penchant for delivering bonuses, and knew who those bonuses were due.
He asked after Kerowyn, and was directed to the command tent. All about him were the sounds of the same kind of celebration as back in his own camp, but more subdued, and there were fewer bonfires, and nothing like some of the wildness he’d left back there.
He dismounted at Kero’s tent and handed the reins of his horse to one of the two sentries posted there, taking the saddlebag with him. When he pushed back the flap, and looked inside, Kero was bent over a folding table identical to his own, going over lists. The lantern beside her seemed unusually smoky, and the pungent odor it emitted made him sneeze. She looked up, smiled wanly, and nodded at a stool beside the table before going back to her task. Her eyes were dark-rimmed, and red; her cheekbones starkly prominent.
Dear gods, she looks like hell. Worse than I expected.
He got a good look at those lists before he sat down; lists of names, and he had a feeling that they were the lists of the dead. He had always left that task till last, and he didn’t think she’d be any different.
She was writing little notations after each name; most looked like other names, which made him think she was probably noting who inherited the dead fighter’s possessions. Before a very few of those names, she made a little mark—
Those must be the ones with relatives, the ones she has to write the letter for. He craned his neck a little, shamelessly curious. That was the single task he had hated the most. Still did hate, since he still had to write letters for the families of his officers, from Lieutenant upward.
There don’t seem to be a lot of those. He grimaced a little. Dear gods. What a sad life they must lead, that so many of them live and die with no one to mourn their loss except their fellows....
Kero sighed, and reached for a scrap of cloth to clean her pen. “Well, that’s done,” she said, tossing her long blonde braid over her shoulder. “All but the letters. Damn.” For a moment she was silent, chewing absently on the end of her pen, and he couldn’t help but notice that her nails had been chewed down to nothing. “At least most of my people don’t have anyone outside of the Company, and a damned good thing, too.”