Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [185]
But the tide of battle was turning. The beasts who had feasted on horse flesh had left, carrying chunks of their booty away in blood-soaked jaws; their fellows were slowly losing ground. As their numbers diminished the humans spread out, extending their protective circle to include their fallen comrades. So many were dead, so many wounded ... you couldn’t look at them, Andrys discovered, or you’d stop fighting. You didn’t dare think about what the battle had cost, or the sheer horror of it would paralyze you.
And then it was over. The last beast was dead, or dying, or fled into the night. Soldiers moved silently to slice each and every white-furred throat that remained, not wanting to be taken by surprise as they recovered the camp. Others moved quietly to where the fallen lay, and in a few comers of the battlefield soft weeping could be heard. That sound shook Andrys to his core. These were city folk, he realized, like himself, and for all their brave talk and macho posturing they had probably never seen more violence than a tavern brawl, or at best a temple riot. Nothing had prepared them for what they saw now. Nothing could.
Gerald Tarrant-you bastard!—you caused this! And so help me God, if I catch you, you’ll pay for it. With a trembling hand he wiped blood from his eyes, hoping it wasn’t his own. First by my hand, and then in Hell.
“You all right?”
It was Zefila. The blood smeared on her face was black, and it reeked of the beasts. He managed to nod and she turned away, evidently satisfied that he could take care of himself. Where had the Patriarch found a woman of such fortitude, he wondered? How had he known, when he interviewed hundreds for this quest, which ones would stand up to such horror?
The Patriarch. He started suddenly, aware that he hadn’t seen the man since the battle started. Whipping about in sudden fright, he searched the battle-scarred campsite for him—and found him, to his relief, standing at the edge of the camp. His robes were spattered with blood and he seemed to be favoring his left leg, but he was alive. Thank God, Andrys thought. How could they have gone on without him?
“Bind up the wounded,” Zefila ordered. “Get them on horseback, if the animals will have them. Move it! Those things may come back.”
“What about the dead?” a woman demanded.
There was a pause. Several men stopped what they were doing, and all turned to look at the Patriarch. The cool blue eyes did not meet their gaze, but turned outward as if staring at some distant vista.
“We take them with us,” he said at last. His tone was strangely bitter. “For as long as we have the horses to carry them.” He looked over the battlefield, and his proud brow furrowed as if in pain. “Men who serve the One God with their lives deserve better than to rot in a place like this.”
With a nod of approval, the man nearest him began to gather up the nearest body; others followed suit, handling the abandoned flesh of their fellow soldiers with a reverence that was born not only of love, but of fear. It could have been them. In another fight—perhaps in their next one—it might be.
The Patriarch walked slowly to where Andrys stood. His steps were heavy, as though he bore some great weight upon his shoulders. When he came within hearing, he said, very softly, “I shouldn’t resent the time it will take, I suppose. Or remind myself that the flesh is but a shell, which has no real value once the spirit has abandoned it. Every minute we delay here puts us at greater risk, but the alternative....” He shook his head in frustration. “It clouds too many futures. Fosters too many resentments. Let them do what comforts them.”
He winced then, and reached out to a nearby tree for support. Andrys hesitated, then