The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [91]
“What about that head wound?”
“He must have lost his helm and been thrown to the ground. It looks to me like a glancing kick from a shod horse tore part of his scalp off.”
Nevyn winced. He leaned down and listened to Tibryn’s breathing: shallow and ragged. When he laid a hand on his face, he found the gwerbret’s skin clammy and cold.
“Fetch a blanket, Branno!” Nevyn snapped. “He’s lost all his fiery humors with the blood, and the imbalance will kill him if we don’t keep him warm.”
With his wounds tended, and him wrapped in blankets and laid near a fire for good measure, Tibryn fought for his life all that afternoon. Whenever he drifted into consciousness, Nevyn got him to drink as much water as he could take and a few sips of herbal medications as well, but he could see how little good they were doing. Tibryn’s face stayed hideously pale, and his lips were bluish, as was the quick of his fingernails. The pain of his torn scalp at times made him moan; it seemed to drain what little strength he had.
Not long after sundown Nevyn realized that the gwerbret was about to die. He knelt down beside him and laid a hand on his face—as cold and clammy as an eel. Tibryn’s breathing came in big gulping gasps. Briefly he woke, opening his eyes and staring at Nevyn.
“Braemys,” he whispered.
“Who’s that, my lord? Your son?”
Tibryn closed his eyes and drew a long hard breath.
“Tell Burcan,” he whispered. “Tell him Braemys lives. I sent him home with fifty.” Again a long pause. “Tell him—”
He choked once, spasmed, and died. Nevyn closed Tibryn’s eyes and drew the blanket over his face, then rose to find Anasyn standing nearby.
“Braemys is Burcan’s son,” Anasyn said. “Tibryn’s nephew.”
“I see,” Nevyn said. “And what do you think he means, sent him home with fifty?”
“Fifty men, most like. Sent him back to Cantrae for some reason.” Anasyn considered, frowning. “Well, if Tibryn even knew what he was saying.”
“I think he did, though it seems he thought he was among friends. Here, has anyone tended that cut on your face?”
“It’s naught.”
“If I can see it by firelight, it’s somewhat. Come along, lad. I want to wash that out, and then we’ll take Tibryn’s last words to the prince.”
In the morning, just after dawn when the astral currents had steadied down, Nevyn scried out their enemies from the etheric. He found the Green Wyvern’s army camped about five miles north of the battlefield. With his etheric sight, he saw not their bodies but their auras, egg-shaped clouds of light, most a grim reddish color, some so dark and small that Nevyn knew they’d not live out the day. Counting them was next to impossible, but Nevyn could tell that the regent’s army had shrunk far more than its casualties would account for. When he returned to the camp, he brought the prince the news straightaway.
“Desertions, my liege,” Nevyn said. “I’d wager that a good many lords have pulled out and taken their men with them.”
“Good. Here’s hoping Burcan’s got a dispirited army on his hands.”
“He’s got a battered one. I’ll vouch for that.”
“Are they staying in their camp, then? They’ll need to lick their wounds.”
“No doubt, Your Highness, but they’re moving out anyway. I suspect they’re running for their dun like rats for a hole.”
Maryn nodded, considering.
“Maybe that explains about Braemys,” the prince said at last. “If Tibryn was in his right mind, that is. Tibryn might have seen the desertions and wanted Braemys safe so he could rally the lords later.”
“That’s a good guess, Your Highness. No doubt we’ll find out all in good time.”
“No doubt.” Maryn allowed himself a wry smile. “But we won’t worry about it until the gods dump it into our laps. We need to ride out fast if we’re going to catch Burcan on the road.”
“Just so. We’re only a bare score of miles from Dun Deverry.”
But moving quickly proved impossible. The Red Wyvern army had taken its own losses and suffered its own wounds. None of the warbands except the silver daggers had gotten itself