The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [218]
“No, no, fear not, O princess of powers perilous,” Salamander said in Elvish. “I just made another ghastly discovery. Lady Varigga killed herself upstairs. I don’t know if she saw the combat twixt her son and Gerran. Did you know about that?”
“One of the chirurgeons told me.”
In but a few moments they both heard more, when Neb and Clae came into the great hall together, shepherded by one of the gwerbret’s riders. Clae clung to his brother’s hand, and his face turned pale at the sight of the dead men, but otherwise he was surprisingly calm as he walked along, looking at each one.
“There he is.” Clae pointed at the corpse of a sandy-haired lad who couldn’t have been much older than Neb. An arrow had pierced his throat. “That’s Raldd.”
“Ah, horseshit!” the soldier said. “I’d been hoping we’d taken him alive. I wanted a word with the lad before the gwerbret hanged him.”
“Can I leave now?” Clae said.
“Of course, lad,” the soldier gave him a grim smile. “You’ve done well.”
“Wait for me outside,” Neb said. “We’ll talk for a bit.”
Clae walked slowly from the great hall, his head held high. He’s going to grow up into one of them, Dallandra thought, and the thought brought her close to tears.
“I wanted to tell you somewhat quickly,” Neb said. “Honelg tried to kill Matto before he took refuge in the shrine.”
“He what?” Salamander said. “Oh, by the Black Sun herself!”
“It’s ghastly, inn’t?” Neb nodded in his direction. “He told the boy that death would be better than falling into the hands of Vandar’s spawn.”
“Oh.” Salamander paused, and for a moment he looked aged as well as ill. “Apparently the pity I’ve been feeling for him is misplaced.”
“I’d say it was.” Neb turned to go, then glanced back. “I’d best go see how Clae fares. We can talk later.”
Together, Salamander and Dallandra followed him outside to the cleaner air of the muddy ward. Here and there a few of Ridvar’s men were picking up dropped weapons and tossing them onto a pile down near the gates. The Westfolk men were hunting for arrows that they could salvage, but they scorned the enemy’s rough-made bows. Prince Voran’s men were leading cows out of the stables, and servants staggered by with the sacks of grain and armloads of hay to feed this living booty. Later, she supposed, the servants would strip the dun of the rest of its livestock. The victors would eat well tonight.
“We should make sure that Arzosah and Rori get a couple of hogs,” Salamander said. “Where are the dragons, by the by?”
“I don’t know,” Dallandra said. “I’ve not had a moment outside till now.”
They left the dun and walked down the twisty maze of earthworks to the open ground below. The stink of a large encampment met them, but at least, Dallandra reflected, it didn’t smell of fresh blood, unlike the great hall. Judging by the silver light behind the clouds, the sun hung past zenith but still well above the horizon.
“It’s so odd,” she said. “It was all over so quickly.”
“Deverry battles tend to be like that,” Salamander said. “I have this nasty feeling that Zakh Gral is going to be an entirely different affair.”
“Me, too. Unfortunately.”
“But let us leave opening that sack of troubles to another day.”
“Yes. Tending the wounded is more than enough trouble for me for one afternoon.”
“I meant to tell you,” Salamander went on, “I heard that Ridvar is going to take the prisoners back to Cengarn and have them drawn and hanged as rebels.”
“He what?” For a moment Dallandra couldn’t speak. She took a deep breath. “Are you sure that’s true?”
“I heard it from Ridvar’s captain. The gwerbret wants to kill them publicly. He thinks that it will scare any of his townsfolk who believe in Alshandra into giving her up.”
“May every god on this earth or above it blast Ridvar to the depths of his soul.”
“Dalla!” Salamander caught her arm. “What—”
“I’ve been fighting to save the lives of those men, and now I see that I should have