The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [91]
Perryn picked his way through the forest until sundown, then dismounted and led his horse through the dark for a few miles more, stumbling only to force himself up again, until they reached a small stream. Slacking the horse’s bit with his left hand seemed to take an eternity. Finally he got it free and let the gelding drink.
“My apologies, but there’s no oats.”
In a golden mist the forest was spinning slowly around him. He sat down just before he fainted.
Like sheep in a snowstorm, the remains of the army huddled in Graemyn’s great hall that night, eighty-odd men in decent shape, twenty-some badly wounded. Rhodry sat on the floor with the last six men of Nedd’s warband. No one spoke as they watched the table of honor across the hall, where Graemyn and his allies talked, heads together, faces drawn and tight-lipped in the torchlight. Frightened serving lasses crept through the warband and doled out scant rations of watered ale. By the servants’ hearth a young page sat weeping, wondering, most like, if he’d ever see his mother again. Finally Nedd left the honor table and limped back to his own men. He slid down the wall rather than sat until he could slump half upright in the straw.
“You should be lying down, my lord,” Rhodry said.
“The blasted cut’s not that bad.” Nedd laid his hand on his thigh as if trying to hide the bloody bandage.
“My apologies, my lord.”
“Oh, and you have mine. We’re all going to have to watch our cursed tempers.”
Everyone nodded, looking at the floor, out into space, anywhere rather than at each other.
“We’ve got provisions for a good six weeks,” the lord went on. “Longer if we start eating horses.”
“Is there any chance for a parley?” Rhodry asked.
“There’s always a chance. Graemyn’s sending a herald out on the morrow.”
Rhodry watched the parley from a distance, because at dawn he drew a turn on guard up on the ramparts. Outside, Naddryc’s men had cleared the battlefield of corpses, leaving a torn, bloodstained stretch of bare ground for about three hundred yards. Beyond that were the tents and horses of the besiegers. Around the dun, well beyond javelin range, trotted a mounted patrol. In a rough count, Rhodry estimated that Naddryc had at least a hundred and thirty men left. When the sun was about an hour’s worth up in the sky, the gates opened, and Graemyn’s chamberlain, carrying a long staff wound with red ribbons, slipped out. The patrol trotted over to him, made honorable half-bows from their saddles, then escorted him over to the camp. Rhodry leaned onto the ramparts and waited. When a flutter of crows flew past cawing and dodging, he envied them their wings.
Although the herald returned in about half an hour, Rhodry had to wait to hear the news until he was relieved from watch. He scrambled down the ladder and hurried into the great hall, where the warbands were eating in an ominous silence. Although the other lords were gone, Nedd was eating with his men. Rhodry sat down and helped himself to a chunk of bread from a basket, but he looked expectantly at the lord.
“Naddryc won’t parley,” Nedd said quietly. “He’s made Graemyn one offer. If we surrender without a fight, he’ll spare the women and children. Otherwise, he’ll raze the dun and kill every living thing in it.”
When Rhodry swore under his breath, the other men nodded in stunned agreement.
“He’s a hard man, Naddryc,” Nedd went on. “And he’s sworn a vow of blood feud.”
“And if we surrender, what then?” Rhodry said. “Will he hang every man in the dun?”
“Just that, silver dagger.”
Rhodry laid the chunk of bread back down. For a moment he wished that they’d sally, die fighting, die clean, instead of swinging like a horse thief, but there was the tieryn’s lady, her serving women, his daughters and little son.
“Ah well,” Rhodry said. “A rope