The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [44]
Staggering, choking on dust and his own eerie laughter, Maddyn got to his feet. Around him the field was clearing as the horsemen charged the fleeing infantry and rode them down, slashing in blind rage at men who could no longer defend themselves. Maddyn heard someone yell his name and turned to see Aethan, riding for him at a jog.
“Did you throw that dart?” Maddyn called out.
“Who else? I’ve heard you laugh before, and I knew that cat’s squalling meant you were in trouble. Get up behind me. We’ve won this scrap.”
All at once, Maddyn’s battle fever deserted him. He felt pain, bad pain, cracked ribs burning like fire. Gasping for breath, he grabbed at Aethan’s stirrup to steady himself, but the movement made the pain stab him into crying out. With a foul oath, Aethan dismounted and caught him round the shoulders, a well-meant gesture that made Maddyn yelp again.
“Hard fall,” Maddyn gasped.
With Aethan shoving him from behind, Maddyn managed to scrabble his way onto the horse. He kept telling himself that riding was better than walking, but he hung on to the saddle peak with both hands to brace himself against the motion as Aethan led the horse out of the death-strewn welter of the battlefield. As they went by, he saw some of Caradoc’s men looting the dead, friend and enemy alike.
Up the riverbank the chirurgeons and their apprentices were waiting for the wounded. Aethan took Maddyn over to Caudyr, then went back to the field to pull more wounded men out of the dead and dying. When he tried to walk to the chirurgeon’s wagon, Maddyn fell, then lay on the ground for an hour while Caudyr frantically worked on the men who were far worse off. At times Maddyn drowsed, only to wake with an oath for his burning ribs; the sun was hot, and he sweated copiously inside the mail he couldn’t remove by himself. All he could think about was water, but no one had time to bring him any until Aethan returned. He fetched him a drink, unlaced the mail and helped him slide it off, then sat down beside him.
“We’ve won good and proper for all the good it does us. Maenoic’s got Pagwyl’s body at his feet, and his allies are all suing for peace right now.”
“Is Caradoc alive?”
“He is, but not a lot of the godforsaken rest of us are. Maddo, we’re down to twelve men.”
“Ah. Can I have some more water?”
Aethan held the wáterskin so he could drink again. Only then did he truly understand his friend’s words.
“Oh ye gods! Only twelve?”
“Just that.”
After another hour Caudyr came, his shirt blood-soaked down the front and up to his elbows. All he could do for Maddyn’s ribs was to bind them with a wet linen band. As it dried in the sun, it would tighten enough to let him sit up. Maddyn’s left shoulder was also a mass of bleeding, ring-shaped bruises: the mark of his own mail, pressed right down through his clothes when he’d fallen. Caudyr washed them down with a slop of mead from a wooden cup. Maddyn shrieked once, then bit his lower lip to keep from doing it again. Caudyr handed him the cup.
“Drink the rest of this,” Caudyr said. “I put some painkilling herbs in it, too. It’ll take the edge off.”
The stuff was bitter and stinking, but Maddyn got it down a few sips at a time. He was just finishing the cupful when Caradoc came over and half sat, half fell next to him. Caradoc’s sweaty face was spattered with some other man’s blood, and his eyes were dark and exhausted.