Amber and Blood - Margaret Weis [79]
Rhys did not know where to begin to search for Nightshade and Mina and Atta. He roamed up and down the street, calling Nightshade’s name, calling Mina, calling Atta. There was no answer. Everyone he saw was covered in soot and dirt and blood. He could not tell the identity of a victim simply by looking at the clothes and whenever he saw the body of a kender-sized person lying the street, his heart clogged his throat.
Even as Rhys searched, he did what he could to aid the wounded, though—not being a priest—there was little he could do except offer comfort and ease their fear by assuring them help was on the way.
Ordinarily the wounded would have been taken to the temple of Mishakal, for her priests were skilled in healing. Her temple had been damaged by the fire, however, and the Temple of Majere was opened to the victims, as were the Temples of Habbukuk and Chislev. The priests of many gods worked among the injured, ministering to friend and foe alike, making no distinction.
In this the priests were aided by mystics, who had hastened to the site to offer their help, and with them came the herbalists and physicians of Solace. The bodies of the dead were taken to the Temple of Reorx, where they were laid in quiet repose until family and friends came to undergo the sorrowful task of identifying and claiming them for burial.
Rhys came across the Abbot organizing litter-bearers. Many of the wounded were in dire condition, and the Abbot was exceedingly busy, for lives hung in the balance. Rhys hated to interrupt his work, but he was growing desperate. He had still not found his friends. Rhys was about to take a brief moment to ask the Abbot if he had seen Mina, when he caught sight of Gerard.
The sheriff was splattered with blood and limping from a wound to his leg. A guardsman walked alongside him, pleading with him to seek treatment for his wound. Gerard angrily ordered the man off, telling him to help those who were really hurt. The guardsmen hesitated, then—seeing the sheriff’s baleful expression—returned to his duties. Once the man was gone and Gerard thought no one was watching, he sagged against a tree, drew in a deep and shivering breath and closed his eyes and grimaced.
Rhys hurried to his side. Hearing footfalls coming toward him, Gerard abruptly straightened and tried to walk off as though nothing was the matter. His injured leg buckled beneath him and he would have fallen, but Rhys was there to catch him and ease him to the ground.
“Thank you, Brother,” said Gerard grudgingly.
Ignoring Gerard’s insistence that the wound was merely a scratch, Rhys examined the gash in Gerard’s thigh. The cut was deep and oozing blood. The blade had sliced through the flesh and muscle and perhaps cracked the bone. Gerard winced as Rhys’s fingers probed, and he swore softly beneath his breath. His intense blue eyes glinted more with anger than with pain.
Rhys opened his mouth to start to shout for a priest. Gerard didn’t wait to hear him, however.
“If you say one prayer, Brother,” Gerard told him, “if you utter one single holy word, I’ll shove it down your throat!”
He gasped in agony and leaned back against the tree, groaning softly.
“I am a monk of Majere,” Rhys said. “You need not worry. I do not have the gift of healing.”
Gerard flushed, ashamed of his outburst. “I’m sorry I shouted at you, Brother. It’s just that I’m fed up to here with your gods! Look at what your gods have done to my city!”
He gestured to the bodies lying in the street, to the clerics moving among the wounded. “Most of the evil done in this world is done in the name of one god or the other. We were better off without them.”
Rhys could have responded that much good was done in the name of the gods, as well, but this was not the time to enter into a theological argument. Besides, he understood Gerard. There was a time Rhys had felt the same.
Gerard eyed his friend, then heaved a sigh. “Don’t pay any attention to me, Brother. I didn’t mean what I said. Well, not much. My leg hurts like hell. And I lost some good men today,