Naamah's Blessing - Jacqueline Carey [129]
There was a brief, shocked silence; and then men laughed and groaned in rueful acknowledgment. With a quiet smile, Balthasar sprinkled dirt on the grave.
Another fellow came forward. “Richard de Laroche,” he said in a ragged tone. “You were a good man and a good friend to me. I promise not to tell your mother that you died because you couldn’t manage to buckle your helmet properly.”
One by one, others came forward.
All the dead were named, all were acknowledged with a last tribute and a fond jest. When it was done, the mounds of dirt painstakingly hewed from the plain were shoveled by hand into the grave and tamped into place.
And then there was nothing left to do but carry onward. Men with damaged gear sorted through the armor and weapons of the slain, replacing pieces as needed. Septimus Rousse outfitted himself with a full set of gear. Bao declined an opportunity to do the same.
“You might at least consider a helmet,” I said to him.
He shrugged. “It does not suit the style of a stick-fighter. The weight would unbalance me. Besides, I have a very hard head, Moirin.”
I eyed him. “The gods know that’s true.”
In accordance with our plan, all the unclaimed armor and weapons were loaded onto a pair of pack-horses and carried half a league downstream to be dumped into the deepest part of the river. Temilotzin and Eyahue regarded this development with obvious regret, but neither of them spoke against it.
Despite Balthasar Shahrizai’s speech, there had been no shifting in the lines of rebellion that had been drawn. Alain Guillard and his two allies remained firm in their resolve to turn back. Our injured fighters raised no protest. Although they were not happy about the prospect, they recognized their limitations. And having relocated his courage, Mathieu de Montague remained desperately adamant that he would not lose it a second time.
I could not help but pity the lad, who was another of the youngest members of our party.
“There’s no shame in it,” I said gently to him. “A warrior’s path is not for everyone.”
Young Mathieu flushed, the blood creeping in a crimson tide beneath his alabaster skin. “Do you think me unworthy, my lady?”
“No!”
“Moirin, don’t coddle him,” Balthasar said in passing, slapping the lad on the back. “You’ll do, won’t you?”
“I will!” the lad said fiercely.
“That’s the spirit,” Balthasar noted with approval. “Remember, if I can do this, anyone can.”
Keeping a sharp eye on the distant mountain-top settlement of the Cloud People, our fighting men at last allowed themselves to wash the dried gore of battle and the dirt of its aftermath from their skin in the river.
I consulted with the knowledgeable Septimus Rousse and the pochteca Eyahue regarding what we could spare from our goods to aid those turning back toward the Nahuatl Empire in their journey.
Some hours past noon, we parted ways. It might have been wiser to wait, but no one wanted to linger on the plain beneath the shadow of the Cloud People’s mountain where their dead awaited retrieval.
I’d allotted one pack-horse, a sack of ground maize and a quarterfull sack of cacao beans to our rebels, reckoning it generous.
“You needn’t do this, my lady,” Alain Guillard said in a stony voice, not meeting my gaze. “We’ll find a way to manage.”
“I am not doing it for you,” I said calmly, nodding toward the injured men. “I am doing it for them.”
He said nothing.
And so we parted, trudging across the plain in opposite directions.
Terra Nova stretched endlessly before us.
FORTY-SIX
For many days afterward, our company was on edge, nerves raw and frayed. We took it as a matter of faith that we remained on the trail of Prince Thierry’s expedition. We posted shifts of multiple sentries at night and avoided settlements of the Cloud People whenever possible.
But it seemed Eyahue was right. There were no further attacks. And bit by bit, we began to relax. Grumbling