Gonwyn made more marks to show the evolving fight. “We’d started to give ground after we got intelligence that the Tedrel cavalry was missing and to watch our flanks. Arland had just refused his line to double spears on the right, when every damned Tedrel ever born washed over us. I saw the Terilee in flood once, rising up a dike. That’s how it felt. Arland called me and his scouts in at that point.”
He laughed. “Ormona was Mindspeaking for Arland and called for reinforcements. She got, ‘Sorry, they’re busy. Good luck.’ ” He stabbed the dirt with the arrow.
“The line bent, but we were doing okay. Then we got word that Sendar was down, and Orthallen . . . he commanded the bulk of the militia . . . ordered everyone back to the second rally line. Disengaging in the middle of a fight is damned hard, and while the militia was doing well, they weren’t up to this. Arland’s regiment got sorted out, but the militia shattered like a dropped pot.”
He shrugged. “They would have had us, except that a whole horde of Tedrels took off and started running for the center. There were enough left to make us pay, but it thinned them enough to give us a chance.”
Gonwyn flexed his hand and stared at the trickle of blood that ran down between his middle and ring fingers. The wound in his shoulder had broken open again. “Most everyone got back into the trees,” he continued. “We were scattered from hell to breakfast in those woods. Once those black-hearted bastards sort out Split-Face and figure out we’re broken, they’ll turn the position. Then, we’re done.”
Adreal paused, assessing Gonwyn’s report. “It’s not that easy. Looks like most of the Tedrel leadership went down in Sendar’s charge. There are a whacking great lot of them still out there, but their army is breaking up. Nonetheless, I take your point. This fight may be won, but it isn’t over.”
Gonwyn nodded, feeling the need to explain his own presence away from the fighting. “We’d just gotten word that the King wasn’t down . . . the message got garbled somehow. Rath thinks we picked up a piece of the local chatter—that the King had gone down into the valley . . . but who knows?”
He continued to draw with the arrow. “We heard from Horvis, who was up closer to the center, that King Sendar had charged down into main body, and we were to press forward in support. Orthallen was nowhere to be found. Ormona was supposed to be Mindspeaking for Arland, but Orthallen took her with him, so we got word from a very confused Guardsman riding his captain’s horse. He was looking for a Captain Elesarn, who was supposed to have a cavalry troop, when he found us. He was about a quarter compass off the mark, looking for a horse unit that were gods’ only knew where at that point. We policed him up.”
“Arland ordered us forward, but it took a few minutes to Mindspeak with Horvis and Ormona and get everyone singing the same hymn. Orthallen was supposed to join back up, but Arland didn’t wait. He did a half-left with what he had and started sweeping in toward the center. I think our linear distance would have been about two miles at that point.”
“Most of the Tedrel shock troops scattered when we came back out of the tree line. I was with about a half-company . . . a mixed bag of Guardsmen and militia. We’d hit what was left of the Tedrel shield wall and were doing okay until I got hit with this . . .” he made a gesture at his marred face, . . . “and I went down. When I came to, anything that wasn’t dead was scattered. Arland and the regiment were long gone. I worked my way back to the rally point . . .” He dismissed an hour’s terror, sharp fighting, and the shoulder wound with a shrug.
He looked around at the piles of dead and dying,and the evidence of heavy battle. “. . . Such as it is.”
A shared glance with Adreal told him that the history lessons were over.
“I’m staying here to redirect whoever tries to make the rally point back to the assembly areas below the village. That’s where Her Majesty is trying to spin dung into diamonds.”
“You want me to go there?” Gonwyn asked.
“No,” Adreal replied, “What I want is for you to get to Split-Face and get him to back off . . . but you’d never make it.” He looked at the battered chainmail on the bloodstained Herald. “You were a Guards officer before you were Chosen. I need you to get into those woods and start rounding up the stragglers. There are parts of units all over these hills, and we have to get the strays moving back toward the village . . . that way Her Majesty can knit something together that buys us time. If I can break through the Companion babble, I’ll get word to someone on what you’re about.”
Gonwyn reached down and gripped his friend’s arm. “Be careful. I saw something in the woods that made a Karse demon look like a kitten.”
Adreal returned the grip. “Probably was Karse. The Tedrels raped and burned their way across the country, even if they were in the Sunlord’s pay. This battle is the best thing that ever happened to them. If Tedrel wins, they get a weakened and defeated Valdemar with a Tedrel client for a buffer. If they lose, then they get rid of an annoying and expensive problem. If it calls a draw, then they bleed us. Three throws, and they win each one. So Karse’ll be watching this all very closely.”
Gonwyn looked at the bloodstained blanket and knew the answer beforehand. “Can I help you?”
Adreal lifted the blanket. Gonwyn saw the poniard rammed to the hilt through the chainmail and between Adreal’s ribs. A bright bubble of blood leaked out as he exhaled. “Healer Janse took the pain when they first brought me here, so it doesn’t hurt. I passed out.” He pointed with his chin to where the wounded had been slain as they lay. “When I awoke, this was over.”
He shifted the blanket to cover himself. Gonwyn bent to offer his hand in farewell. Adreal grabbed it with a fierce strength, his expression direct and forceful. “Gonwyn, do you remember what the King said before he left Haven? You like handstrokes too much, and if we’re going get out of this we need brains. Leave the sword in the scabbard. Promise me you’ll steer clear of fights.”
Gonwyn dipped his head, acknowledging without promising. He raised his hand in salute. “See you on the other side.”
Adreal raised his hand in reply, then let it drop. He turned his attention to obliterating every vestige of their quick maps. That was Adreal, careful beyond careful. “Get something to eat and wash your face.” he said, as Gonwyn turned away. “You look like you’ve been wading in an abattoir.”
Gonwyn returned to where Rath stood. The Companion had all but demolished a pile of oats poured from a bag and onto the leafy ground. He could feel the hunger in the big mare, and the bone-deep fatigue.
:No rest for the wicked.: With Rath, there were never questions. Just statements. It used to annoy Gonwyn, but he’d had twenty-five years to get over it.
“Is there ever?” he replied.
The wounded Guardsman stood nearby. He held a soot-stained, steaming pail of water, the handle wrapped in rags. Blood seeped through the bandage on his head and ran down the side of his face. Gonwyn looked at him . . . one pupil the size of an olive, the other a pinpoint.
“Just put it down, son,” he said gently.
The Guardsman looked at him, confused and still.
Gonwyn took the bucket from him. He watched as the young soldier drifted back to where a larger pot of water boiled over a fire.
The Companion answered his unasked question. :His brains were dashed about. Severe, but not fatal if he is well cared for. There will be damage.:
Gonwyn poured most of the warm water into a pail, mixed a double handful of oats into it, and squatted on his heels to use the rest of the hot water to wash off some of the blood and filth. He took a rag and gingerly swabbed the contusion on his temple from when he’d been knocked off Rath. The mare had nearly done a backflip to avoid stepping on him but had still clipped his head and put him out.