The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [122]
“Here it is, my lord. Shouldn’t you see a chirurgeon?”
“The prince didn’t bring one along. Everyone thought we were just delivering a summons.”
Once he’d dressed, Gerran went looking for Mirryn. He found the Red Wolf men back by the stables where the priests had kept their riding horses—stolen by the Horsekin, along with the temple’s herd of white cows and every other scrap of food in the complex. The men of the warband were tending their own horses while Mirryn stood and watched. This time no one slacked off; every man jumped to when his captain spoke to him; now and then someone glanced Mirryn’s way with admiring eyes. When Gerran joined him, Mirryn turned to him with a grin.
“What was that you were telling me before the scrap?” Mirryn said. “About not getting separated from my men?”
“I knew you wouldn’t let that slip by,” Gerran said.
“Of course not. But still, I’m cursed glad we got there in time.”
“Not half as glad as I am.” Gerran considered congratulating Mirryn on his first battle, then decided that if he did, he’d be reminding everyone that it had been the first. “Here, Caenvyr’s going to set a night watch. Don’t let him take my silver dagger for it, will you? Nicedd did the morning’s scouting. That’s enough extra duty.”
“Done, then. He can have his night’s sleep.” Mirryn looked away. “If any of us can sleep well, that is. Think the Horsekin will try a night attack?”
“I don’t. But why take chances?”
Just as the sun was setting, Gerran and Vantalaber climbed up the rickety catwalks to the top of the walls. Since the compound had once been a lord’s dun, merlons topped the walls, good cover for archers, as Van remarked.
“How many arrows do your men have?” Gerran said.
“A quiver each of unused ones. We retrieved as many as we could from the field, as well. The shafts are mostly broken, but the points are sound, and we carry feathers with us for the fletching. That hacked-up statue inside the temple itself? How will you Deverry men take it if we whittle some of the bits down for shafts?”
“We won’t care one way or the other.” Gerran started to shrug, regretted it, and winced with a choice couple of oaths for the pain in his shoulder. “I doubt if Bel will, either. They say he’s a warrior himself.”
“Splendid! It’s good oak. I hate to waste it. Those shit-sucking Meradan cut the statue up pretty thoroughly. Kind of them to spare us the hard work.”
They shared a laugh.
“Now, when night falls,” Van continued, “tell whoever’s setting the watch to make sure that there’s a couple of Westfolk on guard at all times. We see a fair bit better at night than your folk do.”
“True spoken. I’ll make sure the prince’s captain knows it.”
“Too bad we don’t have one of the Wise Ones with us.”
Gerran himself had been wishing that Salamander had come with them. Had he been there, he could have perhaps used his mysterious craft to see what the Horsekin were up to.
“I’m beginning to understand,” Gerran said, “why the Westfolk honor their Wise Ones so much.”
“They’re going to make all the difference out on the grass. The Horsekin won’t be surprising us, not with them on watch.”
With a cheerful wave Vantalaber climbed back down to rejoin his squad. Gerran lingered, staring off to the west, where the last spread of sunset flamed in the darkening sky. He was tired, he realized, with his shoulder aching like fire in the bone, and his mind wandering, but he couldn’t shake the odd feeling that once before he’d been in a situation like this, penned up by an unexpected enemy, waiting for help that might or might not arrive in time. Yet he couldn’t remember such an incident, no matter how carefully he searched his memories of war.
“My lord?” It was Clae’s voice, calling from below. “My lord, I’ve brought a lantern.”
Gerran turned around and saw the lad standing at the foot of the ladder in a little pool of candlelight. “I’ll come down,” Gerran called back. “Sure enough, it’s getting dark.