Part 38 (1/2)
”Those wizards want to see you.”
”They come up with something?”
”I don't know. They've been everywhere, getting in the way.”
”How are the men? Any problems?””Not yet. Still think they can lick the world as long as you're in charge. But it's daytime now. They've seen how big the place is. I'm scared they'll start thinking about it.”
The western soldier was flighty, and totally unpredictable. One day he might, if inspired, stand against impossible odds and fight to the death. Another day some trivial occurrence might spook an entire army.
”Keep them too busy to think. These pockets. What are they?”
”Citadels within the citadel. They've locked themselves in. Don't look like it'll be easy digging them out.”
”Where's the Queen? Keep the others from sallying. Go after her. On the cheap.”
”Been doing that. Lying about Pthothor's intentions. Got more prisoners than I can handle. Reskird showed up just in time. We'll need men on the wall.”
”Keep the fires going. What about casualties?”
”Not bad. Mostly new men, the way you'd expect. Enough to be a problem if we have to fight our way out.”
”Where're those wizards?”
Haaken was skirting the question of leaving the wounded. Ragnarson didn't want to think about it, let alone verbalize it. It always gnawed at his guts, but sometimes it had to be done.
”Wherever you find them. Just prowl around till one bites your ankle.”
He did. Trebilc.o.c.k and Dantice followed, playing their bodyguard role to the hilt.
Ragnarson found a courtyard where a thousand prisoners sat in tight ranks on the cobblestones, heads bowed, thoroughly whipped. I n a second courtyard he found his dead and wounded, in neat rows on mattresses looted from a barracks room. The dead and mortally wounded were pleasingly few.
On one mattress lay the innkeeper met during the ride to Baxendala.
”Hey, old man, what're you doing here? You should be home minding the tavern.”
”Old? I'm younger than ye are, sir.”
”My job. I get paid for being here.”
”My job, too, sir. It's my country, ye see. My sons, Robbie and Tal, have ye seen them, sir? Are they all right, do you think?”
”Of course. And heroes, too. Be taking home a double share of loot.” He hadn't the faintest idea where they were. But the innkeeper hadn't many hours left. ”When it lets up a little, I'll send them down.”
”Good, sir. Thank ye, sir.”
”Get better, innkeeper. We'll need you again before this's done.”
”Be up and around in a day or two, sir. These Argonese can't cut ye bad when they're showing their backs.”
Ragnarson moved on before his tears broke loose. Again and again he saw familiar faces, men who had followed him so long they were almost family. The same men were always at the forefront, always where the killing was worst.He couldn't help himself. More than once he shed a tear for an old comrade.
Three wizards handled the doctoring. The Thing With Many Eyes, strange though he appeared, was a sympathetic, empathetic soul. He hated watching pain. He, Kierle the Ancient, and Stojan Dusan, were performing surgery on an a.s.sembly line. With the Power they would have defeated Death and pain more often.
”Michael, our species is a paradox,” Ragnarson observed as they departed. ”All sentience is paradoxical.”
”Sir?” The hospital court hadn't fazed Trebilc.o.c.k. Dantice, though, had grown pale.
”Those wizards. They get mad, they can rip up a city, wipe out twenty thousand people, and never bat an eye. But look at them now. They're killing themselves for men they don't even know.”
”That's part of being human. We're all that way, a little. I saw you weep in there. Yet you'd destroy s.h.i.+nsan to the last babe in arms. Or reduce Argon to ashes.”
”Yes. Is a conundrum, as my fat brown friend would say. What's the difference between the innkeeper and the man I killed last night? Each did his duty.... No.
Enough. Let's find Varthlokkur.”
The downhill side of, and aftermath of, battles always pushed him into these moods.
If he didn't catch himself, didn't become otherwise preoccupied, he would plunge into a nihilism from which he wouldn't recover for days.
Night threatened before they tracked Varthlokkur down. He and VisiG.o.dred were in a library, searching old books. Zindahjira was there too, though Ragnarson never saw him.
From back in the stacks he fussed and cursed and tried to get VisiG.o.dred's goat.
”What's that all about?” Trebilc.o.c.k asked.
”I don't know,” Ragnarson replied. ”It's been going on as long as I've known them.”
Ragnar materialized from the stacks. ”Dad!”
After hugging him, Bragi held him at arms' length. The boy was festooned with loot. ”Somebody been breaking plunder discipline?”
”Aw, Dad, I just picked up a couple things for Gundar and the kids.”
”What if everybody did that? Who'd do the fighting?”
Ragnar posed c.o.c.kily. ”Varthlokkur's still alive.”
To keep him out of trouble Ragnarson had convinced him the wizard needed a bodyguard. An amusing notion. Varthlokkur, VisiG.o.dred, and Zindahjira all were d.a.m.ned formidable even without the Power.
”He's been invaluable,” said Varthlokkur. ”How goes the fighting?”
”So-so. We're on top. But we've got to lay hands on the Fadema. Haaken said you wanted to talk to me. Problems?”
”Not sure,” VisiG.o.dred said. ”I heard from Marco this morning. He visited Hamrnad al Nakir.”
”So?””El Murid hasn't collapsed. For a while Haroun's boy won everywhere but at Al Rhemish. He had help from the tribes. After that last surge of the Power, though, things turned around.”
”How?”
”Rumor says El Murid appealed to the angels. Because he claims a direct commission from heaven, I guess. The angels apparently responded. They sent him a general. The Royalist offensive bogged down.”