released his legs. His head was spinning and he was shaking.
'Sew him up quickly before he recovers,’ the physician was saying to someone. ‘Then get him up to the road with the others. There's nothing else I can do for him here. His war's over for some time.'
With an almost incongruous gentleness, the two men picked the man up and carried him a little way off to attend to this injunction.
The physician bent down and washed his hands in a bowl nearby. Arwain caught the sweet, pungent smell typical of Drayner's surgery. Then the physician was shaking his hands vigorously and beckoning his helpers to bring the next victim forward.
He glanced at Arwain while he waited. His gaze was one that Arwain had seen before in the faces of field physicians; practical and detached but underlain by a deep anger. It contained a cruel vision.
But who knows what my own gaze tells, Arwain thought, and, as if in confirmation, a brief look of self- reproach passed over the physician's face.
'I'm sorry I spoke harshly, Lord,’ he said. ‘I didn't recognize you.'
'It's of no consequence,’ Arwain said, laying a hand on the man's arm. ‘Tend your charges.'
The physician turned to the man being laid in front of him.
The men carrying him were being impeded by an anxious-looking trooper who was holding the wounded man's hand, but neither offered him any reproach.
Gently, the physician unwound the bloodstained rag that had been used as a makeshift bandage about the man's head. One of the helpers brought a lamp closer. It revealed a livid and gaping wound that had obviously been done by a battle axe. The physician's brow furrowed slightly. Arwain tensed his stomach and forced his own face into immobility. Then the physician looked at the man's waiting friend, and shook his head.
'If he wakes, he'll not live. And there'll be nothing but pain for him until he dies,’ he said softly. ‘What do you want me to do?'
To Arwain's horror, the man turned towards him, his eyes pleading. ‘He saved my life,’ he said. ‘That was meant for me.'
There was a similarity in the features of the two men that indicated they were related-brothers, perhaps. Man and commander fought within Arwain. The man sought for soft words, compassion, understanding, for time in which this tragedy could be accepted. But the commander knew their situation was too dangerous for the celebration of grief. That must come later.
The two needs merged. ‘He's your kin,’ Arwain said quietly. ‘Do for him what you'd like him to do for you if you were in his place.'
The man looked down at the mangled head, his eyes filling with tears. Tenderly he ran his hand over the blood-clotted hair.
Then, his mouth taut, he nodded towards the physician. ‘Do it,’ he said hoarsely.
The physician glanced at Arwain and flicked his eyes towards the distraught brother. Arwain stood up and took the man's arm. ‘Come on,’ he said, gently, helping him to stand. ‘He'll be tended with respect and there are others needing the physician.'
The man nodded slowly, then suddenly yanked himself free from Arwain's grasp and dropped to his knees by his brother. The physician signalled his helpers, but Arwain held out his hand to stop them.
The trooper bent forward and put his head by his brother's. Arwain heard him whispering something to the dying man, then he was standing again, wiping his hands down his crumpled tunic. Without a word he strode off into the grey anonymity of the field of waiting soldiers.
Even though the man was gone, the physician kept his long-bladed knife from view as he drew it. It was a well-practiced gesture.
Arwain turned away and left the lamp-lit scene.
Coming towards him was Ryllans.
'Any news?’ he asked, for want of something to say that would distance him further from this one death.
'Only from the company on the ridges,’ Ryllans answered. ‘They met no opposition and they're well placed to defend their positions.'
'And us?’ Arwain asked, looking round at the broad field that sloped gradually up from the road until it petered out in dense vegetation and scree. Adequate as a rallying point, it was not remotely defensible against a large force.
'The archers have found a narrower, rockier section further back,’ Ryllans said, pointing down the valley. ‘It's not perfect, but it's as good as we're likely to find.'
A little later, the surgeon's work finished, one of the two wagons that had accompanied the battalion began its journey back to the main army, bearing those wounded too seriously to continue.
The straggling column of retreating men opened to let it pass, and then closed behind it like a dark, silent river.
As they trudged steadily forward, a dull sun rose to greet them, throwing long, faint shadows up the valley. Grim black columns of smoke scarred the western sky.
Antyr moved to the front of the enclosed wagon that he was sharing with Pandra. He was still not wholly used to its relentless, rocking motion and frequently stepped outside to join the driver and enjoy the cold morning air.
Tarrian and Grayle were already there, lying in the foot-well, their paws draped over the kicking board, and their inquisitive heads held high as they peered around at the rumbling train and the quiet countryside preparing for winter.
'Another storm brewing, sailor?’ Tarrian scoffed, as Antyr's head emerged from the wagon.
'Shut up, or I'll ride my horse and you two can run beside me like dutiful hounds,’ Antyr replied brutally.
'You forget I've seen you ride,’ Tarrian retorted, unabashed by the threat.
Antyr contented himself with a grunt and sat down by the driver. He was joined almost immediately by Pandra, who carefully placed a large cushion on the hard wooden seat before sitting down.
'A hard bed, I like,’ he said. ‘But not seats.'
'Are you all right?’ Antyr asked. The wagon was, in many ways, remarkably lavishly appointed, but Pandra was an old man to be undertaking such a journey.
'Yes, I'm fine,’ Pandra replied, shuffling himself comfortable and rubbing his hands together. ‘I'm enjoying this. It makes me feel quite young again.'
Antyr caught a whiff of some caustic comment by Kany, but Pandra merely smiled smugly and patted his pocket gently.
Well wrapped against the morning cold, they sat in companionable silence for some time.
'Dream Finders are you?’ The question came from the driver. Both Antyr and Pandra turned to him. He was a man whose grey hair and weather-beaten face made all attempts at guessing his age futile, but even if his face had not confirmed him as a countryman, his patient, placid manner would have. Antyr and Pandra's surprise, however, was due to the fact that throughout the journey so far he had spoken very little to his two passengers, confining himself mainly to puffing on a carved wooden tobacco pipe and clicking affectionately to his horses from time to time.
'Yes,’ Antyr replied.
The driver nodded sagely, and removed his pipe from his mouth as if to speak.
Then he put it back again. Antyr and Pandra exchanged glances, and the driver clicked at his horses and puffed contentedly on his pipe.
'Bannor,’ he said after a while.
He held out his hand to Pandra, who, after a brief hesitation, shook it and introduced himself in turn. The hand moved to Antyr who did the same. It was large and muscular, but its grip, though positive, was gentle and careful, and, despite the cold morning, its touch was warm.
'You're a farmer, Bannor?’ Antyr asked
Bannor shook his head slowly and took his pipe from his mouth again. ‘Labourer,’ he said. ‘Traveller. Farm to farm as season needs.’ He pointed the pipe stem over his shoulder. ‘My wagon,’ he added.
The revelation left the two Dream Finders at somewhat of a loss as to what to say next.
