Daylight slipped hesitantly through Isak's eyelids. A dull ache pervaded his body and when he tried to raise his head, a stab of pain flared in his temples. He fought to open swollen and caked eyelids. At first, everything was a blur of fogged shapes, but eventually the fragments of light creeping through the fabric of the tent began to trace lines he could understand. Colours wormed into focus and, tentatively, he began to take stock.
Someone had stripped and washed him, dressed his wounds and left him to sleep under a heavy pile of furs. He flexed the fingers of his right hand. The numbness began to fade as he worked it into a fist, then opened and closed it a number of times. With his shoulder screaming in protest, Isak edged his arm higher and higher up his side until he could pull it out from under the furs. When one arm was free, Isak began to remove the furs and assess the damage.
His ribs were bandaged tightly, high enough to cover his scar, though Isak could feel no reason why the dressing needed to go quite that high up his chest. He guessed at two cracked ribs, painful but not dangerous, or he'd be in a much worse state by now. The scent of sweat-soaked linen rose up to meet him as the last fur slid off. While he'd been unconscious, someone had not only cleaned the filth and blood off and dressed his wounds, they'd even tended to his scrappy beard. He remembered nothing of it – not even the discomfort of being moved and manipulated had been strong enough to wake him. All Isak could recall was the sensation of a hurricane in his mind, and the rampant magic picking him up and tossing him to the four winds.
Continuing his personal investigation, Isak found his left arm below the elbow so swollen he could hardly move it: blow after blow had obviously been too much for the muscles of his shield arm. It looked like a spear had sliced into his thigh, but the wound didn't feel too deep, and while the sheets were far from clean, there was no smell of contagion.
Every movement hurt in some way, from neck to toes. He'd been surprised by the lack of minor cuts on his body until he caught sight of several sickly yellow patches on his skin – his remarkable capacity to heal had obviously already kicked into action. It appeared Siulents must have been pierced on several occasions.
'So much for the fabled armour,' he croaked with a wry smile. His voice was barely a whisper; anything more felt beyond his strength. 'Now, how long have I been here?'
As if summoned to answer his question, the shadow of hands appeared on the canvas at the tent's entrance. They fumbled for a while, then a page in Vesna's livery ducked through the gap, a large wooden bowl in his hands. He stopped so hard when he saw Isak awake that the contents slopped up on to his tunic. Before the Krann could muster any words the boy had dropped the bowl on the floor and rushed out. Distantly, Isak heard the page shouting, but the actual words eluded him.
As the voice faded into the background noise of the camp, Isak tried to work out how to ease himself into a more upright position. His left arm couldn't take any weight, so he had to use his right hand to pull some of the furs up behind him and create some sort of pile to lean on. By the time Vesna poked his bruised face through the opening, Isak lay panting, his head and shoulders elevated so he could at least see who came in.
'My Lord,' Count Vesna greeted him, 'dare I ask how you feel?' He took a step towards Isak's bed, followed by Suzerain Tori, the scowling features of Duke Certinse close behind. Isak looked up at Tori, his light cavalryman uniform apparently untouched by the battle. The grim lines of his face hadn't changed; the dour, pious air he wore was impervious to such things.
'Awful. How long have I slept?'
Three nights, my Lord,' answered Vesna. 'Lord Bahl assured us you just needed the rest, that there was no fatal wound, but we had begun to fear-'
'Well, I'm awake now,' Isak broke in. 'Is Lord Bahl here?'
'He commands the sweeping for elves,' Certinse growled. 'We have all been leading hunting parties to pursue those who fled the field.'
'Except me? Because I've been lazing around on my backside for the last few days? If you have a problem with me, Duke Certinse, just say so.' The sour emptiness in his stomach and throbbing behind his eyes told Isak he'd done more than he should have, but though he felt too drained to argue or fight, a drop of venom remained.
'Your Grace,' interrupted Suzerain Tori before Certinse could rise to the bait, 'I should be riding out in a few minutes, but Lord Bahl requested I take the Krann to him as soon as possible. Would you do me the honour of leading the party in my place?'
Certinse looked surprised for a moment, perhaps at the unexpectedly gracious tone, then grunted agreement. Shooting one last malevolent glare at Isak, he turned and swept out, leaving the wolf's head on his cloak to snarl at those remaining.
Tori watched him go, then turned back to the Krann with a sad shake of the head. 'I hardly think you are in any condition to pick a fight with Duke Certinse,' he told Isak. 'You might be Krann of the Farlan, but that doesn't mean civility to your peers is impossible.'
'Fuck Duke Certinse, and fuck the rest of you too. Now you're my peers, when it gives you a reason to complain. The rest of the time, I'm just some damn white-eye.'
'Only if you behave like one. My son was a white-eye, and he still managed to hold a conversation without throwing insults every few minutes.'
Isak slumped back down on to his bed. 'By the Gods, I'm too tired for this. I'm not going to waste the energy explaining myself to you.'
'Well then, conserve your energy and get dressed. You will have to explain yourself to your Lord. Being just a white-eye, you seem to have forgotten that our nation is only recently rebuilt. Reopening old wounds for no reason hurts us all.'
'Actually, I do remember,' Isak said crossly. 'I just don't intend to deal with it through a veil of pomp and breeding. I was told that in war you play to your strengths – well, politics isn't one of mine. Strength is, and now, authority. If I have enemies within the tribe, that's what I'll use to deal with them.' As he spoke, Isak levered himself up into a sitting position and pointed to his clothes.
Before he could ask, Vesna passed them over and helped Isak to dress. In the thick woollens, he looked more like a monk than a suzerain, but he didn't relish the idea of the tightly buttoned tunic around his ribs. He pulled on a pair of winter fleece boots, then belted on Eolis. He stopped before he reached the tent flap when he saw his white cloak hanging up. It had been cleaned of the mud and gore, but no one had been able to repair the burned material. As he rubbed the charred edges with his fingers, a piece came off in his hand, leaving a swirl of soot. He traced a shape too faint for the others to make out, looked at it intently for a few seconds and then rubbed it away on his shirt.
The sky outside was overcast. Isak blinked as he took in the state of the camp. Long lines of tents were now missing, and the forest of colourful banners much reduced.
'Vesna, isn't that Fordan's banner?' he asked. 'I saw him die, I'm sure of it.'
'He did, my Lord,' the count said sadly, 'but his son was among his hurscals and survived, so the banner remains. As for the others, well, Danva took a spear in the thigh and bled to death on the field, and Amah had his skull crushed by a troll.'
'How many did we lose?' A breath of air on his neck made Isak shiver suddenly. The wind was cold but listless; it felt to Isak as though men had been carried away by the breeze, along with their tents and flags.