Part 42 (1/2)
”He's alive,” said Varthlokkur, touching the pulse in Mocker's throat.
”Get Wachtel!” Bragi ordered.
Varthlokkur rose, shedding tears of his own. ”Stretch out,” he told Ragnarson.
”Let me stop that bleeding. Come on! Move!”
Ragnarson moved. There was no resisting the wizard's anger.
”Why?” He groaned as Varthlokkur spread the cut across his back.
”This will lay you up for a while. Wachtel will use a mile of thread. Cut to the bone. Side, too.”
”Why, d.a.m.nit? He was my friend.”
”Maybe because they have his son.” The wizard's examination wasn't gentle. ”I had a son once....”
”d.a.m.nit, man, don't open me up.”
”... but I think he died in an alley in Throyes. The Curse of the Golmunes again.
But for Ethrian he wouldn't be lying there now.”
Wachtel bustled in. He checked Mocker's pulse, dug in his bag, produced a bottle, soaked a ball of wool, told Haaken, ”Hold this under his nose.” He turned to Bragi.
”Get hot water. Have to clean him before I sew.” He poked and probed. ”You'll be all right. A few st.i.tches, a few weeks in bed. It'll be tender for a while, Marshall.”
”What about Mocker,?”
”Neck's broken. But he's still alive. Probably be better off dead.”
”How come?”
”I can't help him. No one could. I could only keep him alive.”While Wachtel washed, st.i.tched, and bandaged Bragi, Varthlokkur reexamined Mocker carefully. Finally, he ven- tured, ”He won't recover. He'll stay a vegetable. And I don't think you'll keep him that healthy long. You'll have trouble feeding him without severing his spinal cord.” His tone betrayed his anguish, his despair.
Wachtel also reexamined Mocker. He could neither add to nor dispute Varthlokkur's prognosis.
”He'd be better off if we finish him,” the wizard said. His eyes were moist. His voice quavered.
Bragi, the doctor, and Haaken exchanged looks. Ragnarson couldn't think straight. Crazy notions kept hurtling through his mind....
Mocker twitched. Weird noises gurgled from his throat. Wachtel soaked another ball of wool, knelt.
The others exchanged glances again.
”d.a.m.nit, I'll do it!” Haaken growled. There was no joy in him. He drew a dagger.
”No!” Varthlokkur snapped. His visage would have intimidated a basilisk.
”I'm the doctor,” said Wachtel.
”No,” the wizard repeated, more gently. ”He's my son. Let it be on my head.”
”No,” Ragnarson countered. ”You can't. Think about Nepanthe and Ethrian.” He struggled up. ”I'll do it. Let her hate me.. ..She's more likely to listen if it was me.... Doctor, do you have something gentle?”
”No,” said Varthlokkur.
”It has to be done?” Bragi surveyed faces. Haaken shrugged. Wachtel agreed reluctantly. Varthlokkur nodded, shook his head, nodded, shrugged.
”You men,” Ragnarson growled at the soldiers who had come with Haaken and the wizard. ”If you value your lives, you'll never forget that he was dead when you got here. Understood?”
He knelt, grunting. The cuts were getting sensitive. ”Doctor, give me something.”
Wachtel reluctantly took another bottle from his bag. He continued digging.
”Hurry, man. I've got a battle to get to. And I'm about to lose my nerve.”
”Battle? You're not going anywhere for a couple weeks.” Wachtel produced tweezers.
”Lay one crystal on his tongue. It'll take about two minutes.”
”I'll be at the fight. If somebody has to carry me. I've got to hit back or go mad.”
He fumbled the little blue crystal three times.
Ragnarson stared across the Spehe at Norbury. Tears still burned his cheeks. He had scourged himself by walking all the way. His wounds ached miserably.
Wachtel had warned him. He should have listened.
He glanced up. It might rain. He surveyed Norbury again. It was a ghost town.
The inhabitants had fled.He fretted, waiting for his scouting reports. The Marena Dimura were prowling the banks of the Lynn.
Again he considered the nearer bridge. It was a stout stone construction barely wide enough for an ox cart. A good bottleneck.
Behind him archers and infantry talked quietly. Haaken and Reskird roamed among them, keeping their voices down. Up the Spehe, Jarl and the Queen's Own waited to ford the river and hit the enemy's rear.
If he came.
N ot today, Ragnarson thought as the sun settled into the hills of Moerschel.
”Ragnar, tell the commanders to let the men pitch camp.”
He was still standing there, ignoring his pain, when the moon rose, peeping through gaps in scurrying clouds. It was nearly full. Leaning on a spear, he looked like a weary old warrior guarding a forest path.
Trebilc.o.c.k, Dantice, and Colonel Liakopulos joined him. No one said anything.