Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [130]
“Two little inches to the right, and that kick would have broken his spine,” Nevyn said. “Two lower, and it would have hit his kidneys. Our cadvridoc here has a silver dagger’s luck.”
Cullyn nodded his agreement. Stripped to the waist, Rhodry was lying on the tailgate of one of the wagons, Nevyn’s improvised surgery. A wedge shape of red and purple had already swollen bigger than an apple on his back.
“Well, herbman, I’m just surprised that his ribs aren’t broken.”
“So am I.”
Rhodry turned his head to look at them. Up by his shoulders and down along his arms were more bruises and small cuts, where sword blows had driven his mail through his shirt and into his skin in a blurry pattern of rings. It was odd, Cullyn always thought, that while bards sang of warriors slicing each other into shreds, you generally killed a man by beating him to death with your sword.
“I don’t need to be fussed over like an old woman,” Rhodry snapped. “You should be tending the men worse off then me.”
“Nonsense. There are three chirurgeons with this army, and Aderyn as well, who’s as good with his herbs as I am. Besides, the battle was only bloody in the fighting round you, my lord.”
Cullyn whistled sharply under his breath, because he hadn’t realized that. Nevyn rummaged through the packets of herbs laid ready on the wagon bed, dropped one into a mortar, and added some water from the kettle that hung nearby on a tripod over a small fire.
“I’ll make a poultice for that bruise. You won’t be able to ride unless we can get the swelling down. What about you, silver dagger? Do you need my aid?”
“I don’t, my thanks. Those young cubs of Corbyn’s can’t fight worth the fart of a two-copper pig.”
“Cursed modest, aren’t you?” Rhodry said. “Don’t listen to him, Nevyn. Without him, I’d be dead, and I know it.”
Nevyn looked up sharply and stared into Cullyn’s eyes. Cullyn felt as if the stare were searing his soul like hot iron, making him remember some old guilt or shame, a memory that faded as soon as he tried to capture it.
“Then it’s a fine thing you’ve done today, Cullyn of Cerrmor,” Nevyn said softly. “We’ll see if Rhodry can repay the debt he owes you.”
“I don’t want payment,” Cullyn snarled. “I know I’m naught but a silver dagger, but I didn’t ride into that mob for coin.”
“That’s not what I meant at all.”
With a toss of his head, Cullyn strode away. Whether the old man was dweomer or not, he’d not let him mock.
The army was settling in around the baggage train. Cullyn was heading toward his horse to rub it down when Lord Sligyn caught up with him. His lordship’s mail was spattered with some other man’s blood, and his mustache was limp with sweat.
“I saw you pull Rhodry out of that stampede. My thanks, silver dagger.”
“None needed, my lord. I promised him I’d guard him.”
“Hah! Many an honor-sworn rider forgets his oath when it comes to dismounting in the middle of a mob. By the asses of the gods, man, you’ve got a great sight more honor than that piss-poor Corbyn.” Sligyn’s voice rose to a bellow. “You saw what happened. The coward! A base-born bastard’s trick, decoying Rhodry out there like that! The dishonor of the thing! Thank every god that you saw what was happening in time.”
“Not exactly, my lord. I was expecting somewhat like that.”
Sligyn’s mouth went slack in disbelief.
“A lord who’d slaughter a merchant caravan to trap an enemy is a lord without honor,” Cullyn said. “So when Rhodry charged, I was right behind him.”
When, at the dinner hour, the lords met for a council of war, Cullyn was invited by Peredyr himself to join them. Although by then Rhodry could walk and sit up, albeit with difficulty, Cullyn knew that he’d be as stiff as a sword on the morrow. Both Cullyn and Rhodry listened with rising fury as the other lords described the battle. None of them had been mobbed or even seriously threatened; they’d merely been blocked from riding to help Rhodry.
“What gripes my very soul,” Rhodry said, “is the way I never even saw Corbyn on the field. The little coward!”
“Wasn’t cowardice,” Peredyr said. “He