Kings of the North - Elizabeth Moon [208]
Two of the three men in front of them continued to fight, but one turned away; Andressat recognized one of the archers. “Get him!” he said. “He’s going for his bow …” Beside him, his two companions surged forward, and he moved with them; the two remaining enemy swordsmen fell. One of his companions ran over the dying and stabbed the enemy archer in the back. The man fell with a choked cry.
It seemed very quiet suddenly.
Andressat bent over, gasping; he had considered himself fit, but it had been many hands of years since he’d fought. Then he turned.
Behind him were Dort, now with his throat cut ear to ear; two enemies, both dead or near death; and Burek, a dent in his helmet and one arm bent the wrong way.
“Gird’s gut,” one of the soldiers said. “This is no good. Cam—get up on one of them rocks and see if there’s any more trouble.” He himself went to Burek. “Sir—?”
“Stupid of me,” Burek muttered. “Blade caught in the neckbone—left me open—”
“Just stay still. Cam’s high guard. Kerin—you stand watch there—”
“He can’t—” Burek said, then bit back a cry as the soldier moved his arm.
“He did well enough,” Selis said. He had Burek’s glove off and the sleeve of his mailed shirt pushed up. Andressat glanced at the swollen dark bruise. “Bad break, this, sir. Needs a surgeon.”
“Just … splint … it …”
“I’ve set bones,” Andressat said. “Learned from a surgeon. We need something for splints.” They were far from trees or even bushes, surrounded by turf and stones.
“Come hold his arm, then,” Selis said. “I’ll find those bows.”
Andressat took hold of Burek’s hand and looked him in the face. Pale, under its tan, but the eyes steady as they met his. He felt a rush of warmth for this man, blood of his blood. It wasn’t Burek’s fault he was a bastard; it wasn’t his fault that he chose soldiering over horse-training. It was his own fault that he’d exiled the lad—lad then but man now—in a fit of temper.
“Sorry …” Burek said.
“It’s a bad break,” Andressat said. “But we should be able to save the arm. I’m sure at Cortes Andres they have a surgeon who can do more, but for now …”
Selis came back with two crossbows. “Just let me cut them apart,” he said. His dagger slit the bindings, one cord at a time. He did so while standing, scanning the countryside. When he had the first bow apart, he said, “What about the front part?”
“The prod? Is it straight?”
“Seems so.” Selis brought it over; Andressat looked at it.
“No—see that bend? We need straight—what about splitting the stock?”
Selis gave him a searching look, then nodded. Moving away, he set the stock down, bracing the butt with rocks, and brought the hatchet down firmly on the end; in two blows he’d created a small notch. He put in a wedge and began working his way down, wedge by wedge; on the third or fourth, the wood cracked the rest of the way; the roller nut flew out. Selis trimmed the rough edges of both pieces with the hatchet. “This do?”
“Good,” Andressat said. “Now wrap them with cloth—and I’ll need some cloth strips.”
“You’re sure you’ve done this before?”
Andressat nodded. “Something every—” He paused, glancing around. “—every soldier should know, my father said.”
Selis cut away one of the dead brigands’ clothes and ripped strips from the shirt. In minutes, he had padded both halves of the former stock and brought them to Andressat. “What do you want me to do?”
“Hold his upper arm here—yes, like that. I need to pull, to straighten this as much as possible.” He glanced down at Burek’s face, now beaded with sweat. “It will hurt, Captain, but if I can align the bones now, you have a better chance of regaining full use of the arm.”
“Go ahead,” Burek said.
Andressat took a firm hold. He had set many a broken wrist and forearm in the