Rory returned carrying the heated sword with Herregina in tow. She cradled a few potions in her arms. “I recognize paverin sap, but I don’t know what any of the rest of these are,” she said. “I brought them all, just in case.”
I took the sword from Rory. “Brace yourself, Bolt, I’m going to cauterize the other half of the wound.” He didn’t respond. I stepped over his leg and knelt by the outside of his thigh, worried about going too deep with the sword. What if I disturbed what I’d already done? I shook my head and focused on the memory of the battlefield surgeon and how he’d done it.
The hissing sound of hot metal against flesh filled the air again. Bolt dug at the ground with his hands as his uninjured leg convulsed. I pulled the sword slowly out of the wound, and he relaxed, unconscious but gasping. I looked at Gael and nodded, but inside my guts twisted into knots. If that hadn’t sealed the artery, I didn’t know what else to try.
So slowly that I could hardly see her moving, Gael eased the pressure on the inside of his leg, allowing blood to flow back in. I checked both sides of the wound. Aside from a bit of seepage, it stayed clear. I loosed a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding, but fear still took most of the air from my voice.
I smiled weakly at Gael. “Herregina has medicine from Bolt’s pack. See if there’s anything in there that stops bleeding.”
She went through the bottles and vials, not nearly as many as Bronwyn or Toria had carried. “No, just paverin sap and chiccor extract.”
“No surprise there,” I said. “Alright, let’s get the paverin into him. Hopefully, his gift will keep him from dying on us.”
Mirren returned, carrying a double handful of bation leaves. “Thank Aer,” I said. “If these work as well on people as they do on dogs, it’ll keep the wound from fouling.” I pointed. “Pack the leaves on both sides of his leg while I wrap it.”
Thirty minutes later we were mounted. Gael rode with Bolt cradled in her arms like an oversized child.
Chapter 62
Toria glanced back at the wagons following her. In another day, they would make Treflow with the men and weapons she’d managed to beg or borrow from each outpost they’d encountered along the outer cordon. Fifty men and women slept in the wagons, their eyes shielded against the light of day.
“If Rymark has withdrawn to Treflow, why did he order the outer cordon to remain?” Fess asked.
“Cesla has his forces pinned,” she said. It had taken her two days of musing on the orders Warena had received to come to a firm conclusion. “The kings and queens of the north are coming as quickly as they can along the outer cordon,” she said. “In order to buy the monarchs safe passage south, he has to keep the cordon in place. If he doesn’t, he puts them at risk.”
“But why keep them there?” Fess asked. “Once Regent Cailin and Prince Brod have passed south of each outpost, those soldiers could withdraw and accompany them to Treflow.”
“Such a move would pinpoint their location,” Toria said. “Cesla would be able to concentrate an attack and kill or capture them. The kings and queens must move quickly, but quietly.”
Her apprentice fell silent, musing. When he spoke again, his voice held concern that mirrored hers. “If Cesla knows Rymark has fallen back to Treflow, he can concentrate his entire force on an attack there before Rymark can pull reinforcements from the perimeter. What are the odds the king will win, Lady Deel?”
“The specifics of the mathematicum are beyond me, Fess,” she said, hoping he would be satisfied.
“I don’t really understand the mathematicum myself,” he said. “Can Rymark win?”
“Yes.”
“If you were a betting man, Toria Deel, where would you place your wager?”
When she didn’t answer, Fess sighed and resumed his inspection of the landscape. “I thought so.”
Pellin stepped from the quay in Cynestol’s port, stumbling as his legs worked to find their land rhythm again. For as far as he could see, people pushed and fought to board any ship that could make the trip south. Desperate passengers argued and sometimes fought, bidding up the price of passage. Ahead of him, Mark walked with Elieve, Allta a pace behind.
“Rumors are flying as thick as gulls over garbage,” Captain Onen said as he walked beside him. “I don’t know what business you’re on, Master Pellin, and I don’t wish to, but your coin is appreciated and you’re better company than most of those who live on the land. Are you sure you don’t want to go back to the south?”
He’d turned to respond when Mark’s cry cut through the air. “Get down!”
Pellin heard the whistle of displaced air just as Allta crashed into him and Onen, sending them sprawling across the stone pier. His guard stood above them, swatting at arrows that came from different directions.
“Dwimor!”
Screams echoed in the streets. Mark’s yell of rage threaded through them. Onen rolled, drawing his hooked knife and searching. An arrow appeared out of thin air a dozen paces away to come streaking for the captain’s heart. Allta’s sword whined as he lunged to knock it aside. It deflected from his blade to take the captain through the arm, and his knife clattered to the ground.
Reaching up, Pellin pulled at Onen’s clothes. “Get down! You can’t see them.”
A gurgle prefaced the sound of a body hitting the quay, and a man appeared, a knife lodged in his throat.
“Allta,” Pellin yelled. “Help Mark with the others.”
“I can’t,” he answered. “If I move, the archers will have you.”
Mark’s screams of rage filled the air as people fled. Pellin looked to see his apprentice charging empty air, his knives flashing. An arrow appeared in midflight, but Mark threw himself to the side at the last moment
