The Princess and the Bear - Mette Ivie Harrison [73]
King Helm had had no patience with tricks. He had told his soldiers that if they wished to fight at his side, they had to give the best of themselves, for he was giving the best of himself. And if they died, they died in glory.
It had been one of the first times that the hound had understood a human point of view.
The sword circled again.
The hound simply ran from it, and turned to try herself at another pair.
As she ran, she heard the bear roaring at his own men to get out of the way, but few of them understood him. It was not because they had no magic, but because they were focused on another task—fighting for their lives.
Nonetheless, the hound and the bear moved from the back to the front of the line.
She cut open faces, gouged out eyes, and chewed at hands that held swords.
He cut heads open, tore off arms and shoulders, and crushed whole bodies.
At last, when it was nearly dark, the enemy army retreated, and so did the bear and the hound, scrambling back to the place above the battle where they had begun.
There they rested as dark fell, returning to human form.
Chala was exhausted as she had never been before and knew that only a human could push a body this far. A hound would simply have let the fight go, or let herself die. But she had fought on until she could hardly see.
“I should have saved more of them,” said Richon as he looked out over the battlefield, which was at this point nearly invisible in the dark.
“Not just my own men, but those who fought them as well,” Richon went on. “They were not evil. They were simply here to do what they had been sent to do. My father would have found a way to speak to them, to convince them to turn back. Somehow he would have used his magic to save lives. I have only made sure that the lives lost were someone else’s.”
Chala was surprised that she, too, felt a sense of loss at the deaths of her enemies. She had never felt such a thing as a hound.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Richon
THE SOUNDS ON the battlefield grew more muted. Richon leaned against Chala and wished he could lie down and close his eyes, and sleep until morning. But the work of the battlefield was not finished at night. Young boys pulled the dead to the sides and women and girls stripped them of uniforms and weapons, and whatever else they could find that was of use to the army. How many of the dead were their own relatives or friends?
With sudden determination to see the royal steward who had taken control of his army up close, Richon went back to the forest to retrieve the swords. He slung them back over his shoulder, except for one that he tucked into his tunic, for his own use.
Chala changed back into her hound form and followed him, but from a distance.
Richon kept his head down as he walked toward the Eloliran army. He could hear shouts of pain from the tents of the physicians who worked to take off mangled limbs, sew entrails back into stomach cavities, and cauterize wounds oozing with infection.
“You there!” someone called to him.
Richon shuffled over.
“What are you doing here? Come to join the army?” It was a dark joke. Indeed, who would come to join this army, when it was losing so badly and the signs of death were everywhere?
“No,” said Richon. He knew immediately that this was a man who had spent time with the royal steward. He held out the swords. “Came to bring these to the royal steward.”
“Ah, good. We can always use more of those. I hope they’re well made.”
“Well enough made,” said Richon. For the brute killing that was this war.
The man gestured to a tent.
It was lit from within and the strong scent of incense rose from it.
Richon kept his head low and moved toward the tent. Another guard stood in front, and Richon explained his errand a second time.
The guard offered to take the swords, but Richon shook his head.
“I’ve got to make sure they get to him. No offense. But