A Time of Exile - Katharine Kerr [68]
“The Bears! They’re heading here!”
“Get into the forest. Run!”
She obeyed without a moment’s thought, racing through the tents. Aderyn started to follow, then turned back. If he abandoned his medicinals, wounded men would die. He could see the horses by then, a squad of some fifty out of an army of four hundred, heading in a cloud of dust straight for the defenseless camp. Distantly he could hear elven war cries, chasing after. He grabbed his heavy packs, then froze in sudden panic as the lead horsemen swung round and headed straight for him, swords flashing, slashing the tents, hooves pounding, kicking, trampling bedrolls and cooking pots alike in empty revenge. Aderyn knew he should run, could hear his own voice speaking aloud and begging himself to run, but the panic bit deep and froze the blood in his veins like snakebite as two horsemen charged, closer, closer, closer.
“Not the councillor!” A third horseman burst past a tent and swung by him at an angle to meet the others. “Turn off!”
Swords flashed; one of the charging men screamed and pitched over his horse’s neck.
“I said turn off!”
The second horseman did just that, dodging back the way he came, only to meet elven riders as Halaberiel led his swordsmen, mounted now, into camp. Dust plumed with the battle cries as the last few Bearsmen fled, screaming and cursing as they headed south. Aderyn’s rescuer turned his horse to follow, then pulled his blowing horse to a stop and slumped in the saddle. Aderyn ran to him just in time to catch him as he slid to the ground in a welling of blood. An arrow had pierced his mail just at the armpit, where the arteries were pumping his life away. Aderyn pulled off his pot helm and eased the padding back from his death-pale face: Cinvan.
“A councillor and an unarmed man,” the lad whispered. “Couldn’t let my lord disgrace himself a second time.”
Then he died with a stiffening and a shake of his whole body.
“Are you all right?” It was Halaberiel, rushing over, bloody sword in one hand, helm in the other, blood flecking his face and pale hair.
“I am. Are we retreating?”
“Retreating?” Halaberiel howled with laughter. “We’ve carried the day, man! We slaughtered the ugly lot of them!”
Aderyn wept like a child, but as he looked into Cinvan’s glazed eyes, he wasn’t sure if his tears were joy or grief.
In that last battle in the camp, fought against men sworn in their hearts to die and put an end to shame, the elven forces took casualties, but with only nine elven dead and some twenty wounded against the hideous human losses, Halaberiel was right enough to claim a complete victory. All that day Aderyn and Dallandra worked over the wounded with a swarm of volunteers to help them until the two of them were as gory as corpses themselves. By moonlight they swam in the lake shallows to wash themselves clean, then returned to the camp to find the dead laid out, ready for cremating on the morrow. Dallandra was so weary and heartsick that she crept into her tent to sleep without even a bite to eat, but Aderyn, who was used to battle wounds from his apprenticeship, joined in the victory feast. Since in honor of the battle Halaberiel decided that they could squander seasoned wood and build a proper bonfire, light blazed and danced through the camp along with music from drum and harp. Drunk and howling, the banadar’s own warband ran from group to group of celebrating elves, while Halaberiel himself sat off to one side on a pile of cushions and merely watched. When Aderyn joined him, Halaberiel handed him a skin of mead. Aderyn had a few cautious sips to ease his aching muscles.
“Over a hundred Round-ears escaped,” Halaberiel said abruptly. “All men from the rear of the line, so they were probably Melaudd’s allies rather than Bearsmen. Think they’ll raise an army and come