The Bonemender (16 page)

Gabrielle gathered up her old skirt and overdress and looked at Derkh.

“Just throw them outside; someone will get rid of them.”

She went to the door and paused.

“What is it?” asked Derkh.

“Nothing,” said Gabrielle softly. “It’s just ... my father’s blood is on them.” The confession came out before she could stop it.

Derkh seemed taken aback. Maybe, like her, he hadn’t really considered that grief and loss came to enemies as well as friends.

By the morning of the second day, Gabrielle knew that Derkh was out of danger. She was glad, for a bond of trust and respect had grown between them. She herself, however, was dangerously close to collapse. She didn’t much care; exhaustion and heartsickness had taken too heavy a toll. But it occurred to her that with Derkh stable, she could slow her efforts to a more normal pace, and this might also buy the Basin troops the time they needed to regroup. Col had delayed this long for his son. Would he wait longer?

She attended to Derkh diligently that day but paced herself. Col checked on them around noon, and though he quickly regained his stern manner he could not suppress his surprised relief at finding Derkh resting comfortably, sipping at some broth.

“He will live?” he asked bluntly.

Gabriel nodded. “With rest and careful attention to his wounds, yes. He will live.”

“Lucky for us both,” he remarked. It was as close as he would come to thanking her.

T
HAT
night, about a mile from camp, Haldoryn briefed his men one last time. “Get in and get out,” he said. “No foolish risks. We want to disorient the enemy, put them on the defensive. We cannot make a serious dent in their numbers, but we can perhaps shake their confidence. Keep silence, stay cloaked in darkness. We rendezvous on this path, back where it crosses the stream.”

“One more thing,” added Féolan. “Some of these men are conscripts who fight against their will. They will be quartered together. Do not harm them, unless forced to it.”

Except for the conscripts’ compound, the
Gref Orisé
camp was not heavily guarded. No alarm sounded as the swift shadows flowed over the perimeter and vanished among the tents. Orange tongues of flame licked at the darkness: supply carts, ale barrels and cook tents sprang alight. A cry of “Fire!” rang through the camp as the startled sentries rushed to quench the flames. Two men drowsily guarding a large tent sprang to arms but too late; they died without a sound under the knives of two grim-faced Elves. Men thick with sleep poured from their tents with confused shouts; many were dead before their companions knew what had happened.

Commander Col did not rush out. He yelled for his guards, and when they did not appear, he strapped on his cuirass and helmet before cutting a strip out the back of the tent with his sword and stepping through.

Danaïs wiped his dagger and faded back into the shadow of a tree. He glanced at Féolan, his lips thin with disgust. “This is an ill night’s work, my friend,” he murmured.

“Aye,” agreed Féolan. “Rather would I face a man full-armored and ready than kill from behind like a thief.”

Danaïs stiffened. “It seems we get our wish,” he said.

Féolan turned to the armored figure stalking toward them. He smiled ruefully. “At last I get to show off my
Gref Orisé
training,” he said. “Danaïs, stay back, I beg you, and protect both our backs.”

Féolan lowered his sword in the classic
Gref Orisé
fighting stance. Let him puzzle on that, he thought. The figure paused, then accepted his challenge. The duel began, unnoticed in the uproar all around them.

The man was a powerful and canny fighter, though against Féolan he seemed lumberingly slow. Féolan began two-handed, in the heavy slicing
Gref Orisé
style. As he got a feel for his opponent’s moves, he switched to the more complex one-handed swordplay of his own people. He managed several nicks at the man’s bare arms, and took a glancing blow on his fingers in return, but knew there could be no victory unless he penetrated the armor. Working his way toward his opponent’s left side, he feinted and then leaped in with a powerful two-handed broadside sweep behind the man’s knees. He was down. Danaïs leaped in, pinning the sword arm and sending the sword skidding across the bare ground while Féolan fell on the man’s back, slit the armor laces
and flicked open the clasps at the back of his helmet. The thick neck and shoulders lay exposed.

Féolan paused, breathing heavily. He should kill this man, his enemy, conquered in a fair fight. But his gorge rose at the thought of thrusting a sword into that unprotected neck. He pulled off the backplate, cast it aside and said, “Sit up, you.”

His opponent sat warily, the breastplate falling away to reveal his chest still heaving with exertion.

“Now your helmet.”

Féolan recognized the man immediately. He had seen him only once, but a striking presence like that was hard to forget.

“Good evening, Commander Col,” he said. His sword stayed firmly trained at the man’s neck.

Col swallowed his shock well. “How do you know my name?” he grated.

“I served in Unit Eighty-Six,” replied Féolan. “And now, I think, there is no more time for talk. Pick up your sword, Commander, and fight me on even terms.” He was well aware of Danaïs’ alarm at this gesture, but he had no choice. He could not walk away, leaving the commander of the
Gref Orisé
forces alive and well, and he could not kill the man in cold blood. He would have to fight. And he would have to make a quick job of it, before they were noticed and men rallied to Col’s aid.

It was almost easy. It had been many, many years since Col had fought without armor, and he left his side unprotected once too often. Leading with a quick feint, Féolan darted in and planted his sword deep between Col’s ribs.

They did not wait to see the outcome. He and Danaïs slipped away, making for the woods east of camp.

G
ABRIELLE STARTED AWAKE
to hammering footsteps, shouting and the crackle of fire. She leaped to her feet and peered out the doorway of the tent. It was a scene from a disjointed nightmare: the air full of smoke and shouting, the dark figures of running men glimpsed by the crazy flicker of flame. Her guards were gone.

An idea whispered in her: escape. Behind that a sudden longing: home.

She pulled back from the door, trying to order her thoughts.

“If you have a chance to go, take it.”

Derkh’s voice made her jump. She turned to him. “Take it,” he insisted. “You have more than earned your freedom.”

She crept over to his pallet. “I need to know that you will be well.”

“I will,” he replied. “I’m getting better now. You know it.”

“You are, but as long as that wound is open it can get infected. Your ... uh, surgeons, they have to take care of it properly.”

“Tell me how.”

She did. She told him how to keep the wound clean: to insist on handwashing, boiled bandages and frequent dressing changes. She left behind the last of her poultice ingredients and told him how to dry and reuse them when he ran out. She gave him the names of the plants involved, in case his own surgeons kept a supply. And then she surprised herself by leaning over and kissing him on both cheeks. He reached up around her neck and pulled her close, and she was glad to feel the strength in his arms. Then she cracked open the tent flap and slid out into the orange and black night.

T
HERE WAS NO TELLING
which way was best. Gabrielle hadn’t even the sketchiest sense of the camp’s layout; she just picked a
direction and ran. Lacking the energy to dodge and hide, she blundered past the fighting and the fires, finding herself at last in the relative shelter of a stand of trees. Heaving for breath, legs trembling, she tried to catch her bearings. She had rarely been in the woods at night, but she found after a few minutes that she could pick out the blacker lines of the trees well enough. Cautiously, she made her way deeper into the brush, feeling for the ground beneath her feet, gaining confidence with each step. Gradually the clamor died away, until for the first time in many days she heard nothing but the soft sounds of nature. Moonlight outlined the birch trees with silver; an owl hooted. Her feet found a narrow path and followed it easily. She was not afraid.

Not, at least, until she heard voices up ahead. Gabrielle froze, her first dismayed thought that she had somehow circled around and blundered back to the Greffaire camp. Then she heard it again, not the harsh shouts of Greffaire soldiers but low, liquid voices speaking in a language like soft music. Her heart gave a lurch of recognition: they were Elves. They would help her. She had to catch up.

She was nearly there, all but running up the path, when she was tackled from behind. She fell, hard. Strong arms pinned her; she felt the tip of a knife or sword blade in her side. “Please! I am a friend!” she cried, unknowingly echoing Féolan’s cry to the Verdeau guards. Then it seemed the thread of will that had brought her this far snapped; she fell silent and lay still. So be it, she thought. Better, at least, to die here under the trees than in that wretched camp. But her assailant was turning her over. Startled luminous eyes gazed at her, then widened in confusion. He sat her up, brushed her off, helped her to her feet, a stream of Elvish washing over her the while. Finally, standing unsteadily, Gabrielle realized he was asking a question.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and her voice came out so shaky she had to swallow and start over. “I’m sorry. I don’t speak Elvish.”

T
HREE
E
LVES CAME
slowly up the trail to the rendezvous point. One had taken a bad slash above the knee, and the other two supported him on either side. Féolan was well satisfied; as far as he could tell there had been no Elves lost and only one injury worse than this leg wound. They would do a more careful count once they were deeper into the woods.

The wounded man leaned heavily on Féolan as they worked their way up a steep rise in the path. The trail leveled out, then twisted sharply before plunging into the deep woods: the first sentry point. One sentry stood in place; as they passed, Féolan noticed the other was questioning a
Gref Orisé
prisoner. He shook his head in irritation; there had been no talk of taking prisoners and for good reason: What were they to do with this fellow now?

He caught a snatch of the prisoner’s reply: “I’m sorry. I don’t speak Elvish.” Féolan’s breath stopped in his chest. He spun around, his injured companion forgotten.

“Gabrielle?”

“G
ABRIELLE?
” said a voice, and it was the voice she had dreamt of so often, so often that she supposed she must be dreaming yet again. It was a good dream, though, and she raised her head, focused her tired eyes and found him.

“Féolan.” She took two stumbling steps toward him, and her knees buckled. He was there, swift as a cat, catching her up in his arms and holding her tight against him. Gabrielle buried her head in his shoulder and let his strength and love flow into her. They did not move or speak for a long time.

Finally she stirred. Féolan lifted her chin. Strings of hair, stiff with dirt and blood, hung before her eyes, and he tucked these back as tenderly as a mother so he could look full upon her. “Gabrielle,” he said wonderingly. “How is it you are here?”

Gabrielle’s face crumpled with pain. “My father is dead.” The tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. “I couldn’t save him.” She laid her face against his chest and sobbed.

W
HEN
Gabrielle awoke she was being carried like an overgrown child through a forest tinged gray with first light. She lifted her head, disoriented, and then smiled with pleasure as a familiar voice greeted her.

“Awake at last, sleepyhead?” asked Danaïs. “A good thing. You’ve been putting on weight through the night, I think.”

“Danaïs!”

He put her down gently, steadying her with both hands. “Hello, beautiful healer.”

“Not so beautiful now,” she pointed out.

“You smell very bad, as well,” he agreed. “Still, it was my greatest pleasure to carry you these many miles. I had to wrestle you away from my friend Féolan. He planned to lug you along until his arms fell from their sockets.” His face became serious, the brown eyes tender. “You have traveled a hard path, I think, since we last met.”

“Don’t make me cry again.” Too late. The tears gusted through her like a storm, and Danaïs just held her while a stream of Elves passed them by. At last Gabrielle caught her breath and wiped at her eyes. Her shoulder was wet. She looked up and saw that Danaïs too had been weeping.

“I am so sorry, Gabrielle. Féolan and I both had great respect for your father. We will grieve for his family and his people.”

Danaïs spoke to a nearby Elf, who nodded and headed quickly up the path. “Féolan would not let go of you until I promised to alert him if you woke,” he said. “Can you walk for a while? It is a long hike still back to Stonewater.”

That dawn walk through the woods might have been prescribed by a very wise healer expressly to revive Gabrielle’s strong spirit. Féolan and Danaïs paced protectively on either side of her. They talked little but gave much: Safety. Love. Understanding. She walked in silence as the forest woke up around her. Birds peeped and twittered, then burst into song. The dark tree trunks became backlit in a rosy glow. The first spring leaves, that sweet pale green seen only in spring, gave the air a golden haze. As she walked, the peaceful, quiet beauty seemed to soak directly into her heart.

B
Y NOON THE
other Elves were far ahead. The three made a little fire and ate the travel biscuits and dried apples Féolan and Danaïs had stashed in their packs. Gabrielle sat nestled against Féolan, gazing into the flames. Sometimes Féolan hummed quietly, and it seemed almost as though his voice were coming from inside her own head. The forest was drowsy and dappled under the mid-day sun, and the fire made an intimate, private circle of the three friends. The time had come to talk.