Fire Dragon - Katharine Kerr [28]
“I did have my doubts.”
“Ah ye gods! I'll never be safe again. Anytime the least little harm befalls that wretched bard, I'll be blamed.”
“Truly, you might devote some time to thinking up ways to keep him safe.”
Oggyn gave him a sickly smile. Without another word, Nevyn left him to recover his composure.
There remained the problem of what to do with Maddyn. He was too weak to ride with the army; jouncing around in a cart would only weaken him further. This deep into enemy territory leaving him behind would be a death sentence. The morning's council of war, however, solved the problem. Gwerbret Ammerwdd pointed out that Braemys was most likely laying a trap or, at the least, leading them into some weak position.
“He knows this country well,” Ammerwdd said. “I've no doubt he's got some trick in mind, or some battlefield that will be to his liking but not to ours.”
“I agree,” Maryn said. “I suggest we camp here today and send out scouts. They can cover a good deal of territory once they're free of the army.”
After a great deal of discussion, the rest of the lords went along with the plan. All that morning the army waited as horsemen came and went, fanning out into the countryside in the hopes of getting a glimpse of Braemys's position.
Nevyn spent much of the wait with Maddyn in his tent. Although the herbs had purged the worst of the contagion, the bard still lay ill, so exhausted he was cold and shivering despite the afternoon warmth. From the vomiting, his lips and the skin around them were cracking. When Nevyn rubbed herbed lard into them, he noticed that his skin had no resilience. Nevyn pinched a bit twixt thumb and forefinger so gently that Maddyn never noticed, but the little ridge of skin persisted rather than smoothing itself out.
Fortunately, near to camp some of the men had found a spring of pure water; Nevyn sent Branoic off with a clean bucket to fetch some back.
“The contagion has depleted his watery humors,” Nevyn told him. “We've got to replenish them.”
Sometimes Maddyn could keep the pure water down, and sometimes it came back up again, but eventually he did manage to drink enough to allay the worst of Nevyn's fears. Through all of this Branoic hovered miserably outside, glad for every little errand that Nevyn found for him to do.
“He's been my friend from the day I joined the daggers,” Branoic said. “I'll do anything I can, my lord.”
“Good,” Nevyn said. “He needs water and food both, but he won't be able to keep down more than a bite or swallow at a time.”
“If all that arse-ugly pork's gone, why is he still so sick?”
“I wish I knew. Men who've eaten spoiled food often stay ill for a long time after, but I've no idea why.”
Branoic stared wide-eyed.
“There's a cursed lot of things I don't know,” Nevyn went on. “No other herbman I've ever met knows them either. Why contagion lingers is one of them, and how it spreads is another.”
“I see.” Branoic rubbed the back of his hand against his chin. “That's not what I'd call reassuring, my lord.”
“Honesty rarely is. Now, go tend Maddyn. I've got to make myself presentable for the prince's council of war.”
In a darkening twilight two of Daeryc's men galloped in with news. A herald led them to the prince, who was sitting in front of his tent with Nevyn and some of his vassals around him. In the firelight they knelt to him and told their tale. They'd ridden directly east—or so they'd reckoned from the position of the sun. Their shadows were stretching long in front of them by the time they topped a low rise and saw, some miles farther off, a huge cloud of dust drifting at the horizon.
“It had to be the Cantrae men, Your Highness,” one of the scouts said. “Naught but an army could raise that dust, and the gods all know there's not enough men left for more than one.”
“Just so,” Maryn said, grinning. “How far away were