A Time of Omens - Katharine Kerr [137]
Yraen found one bay gelding on the far side of the copse. He dismounted and slacked the bits of both horses to let them drink, then fell to his knees and scooped up water in both hands. No fine mead had ever tasted as good. When he looked at the bright water, rippling over the graveled streambed, he thought of all those bards who sang that men’s lives run away as fast as water. It was true enough. The evidence was lying a few hundred yards behind him on the field. He got up and tried to summon the will to go back and help with the wounded. All he wanted to do was stand there and look at the green grass, soft in the sun, stand there and feel that he was alive.
Far down the little valley, he saw a single rider, trotting fast, and leading what seemed to be a pack mule. Mounting his own horse, he jogged down to meet her, for indeed, the rider turned out to be a woman, and an old white-haired crone at that. Her voice came as a shock, as young and strong as a lass’s.
“Yraen, Yraen,” she called out. “Where’s Rhodry? Has he lived through this horrible thing?”
Yraen goggled, nodding his head in a stunned yes. She laughed at his surprise.
“I’ll explain later. Now we’d best hurry. I fear me there’s men who need my aid.”
Side by side they jogged down the valley as fast as the pack mule could go. Out on the field, dismounted men hurried back and forth, pulling wounded men free, putting injured horses out of their misery. Near the horse herd, Lord Erddyr knelt next to a wounded man. When Yraen led Dallandra over, Erddyr jumped to his feet.
“A herbwoman!” he bellowed. “Thank every god! Here, Comerr’s bleeding to death.”
Yraen turned his horses into the herd and left Dallandra to her work. He forced himself to walk across the battlefield, to pick his way among the dead and dying, simply to prove to himself that he could look upon death without being sickened, just as a real man was supposed to do, but he found it hard going. At last he found Rhodry, kneeling by Lord Adry’s corpse and methodically going through his pockets, looting like the silver dagger he was.
“A herbwoman’s here,” Yraen said. “She just rode out of nowhere.”
“The gods must have sent her. Did you hear about Comerr? Tewdyr got in a blow or two before he died. Tewdyr’s son is dead, too.”
“I figured that.”
Rhodry slipped a pouch of coin into his shirt under his mail and stood up, running his hands through his sweaty hair.
“Sure you don’t want to go back to your father’s dun?”
“Ah, hold your tongue! And know in my heart for the rest of my life that I’m a coward and not fit to live?”
“Yraen, you pigheaded butt end of a mule! Do I have to tell you all over again that you’re not the first lad to break down after his first battle? I—”
“I don’t care what you say. I shamed myself and I’ll feel shamed till I have a chance to redeem myself.”
“Have it your way, then.” With a hideously sunny grin playing about his mouth, Rhodry looked down at the corpse. “Well, what man can turn aside even his own Wyrd? I’d be a fool to think I could spare you yours.”
In that moment Yraen suddenly saw that Rhodry was a true berserker, so in love with his own death that he could deal it to others with barely a qualm. The intervals of peace, when he was joking or courtly, were only intervals, to him, things to pass the time until his next chance at blood. And I’m not like that, Yraen thought. Oh, by the gods, I thought I was, but I’m not. When Rhodry caught his elbow to steady him, Yraen felt as if one of the gods of war had laid hands upon him.
“What’s so wrong?” Rhodry said. “You’ve gone as white as milk.”
“Just tired. I mean, I…”
“Come along, lad. Let’s find a spot where you can sit down and think about things. I’ll admit to being weary myself.”
The army made a rough camp down by the streamside. One squad rode out to fetch the carts and the packhorses; another circled