The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [129]
“Doubtless,” Salamander said. “The fate of one woman in particular aches my heart. She and her man used to hold the farm just north of here. She was captured by the cursed Horsekin once, then rescued, and now they’ve probably got her again.”
“Well, if the gods are willing, we’ll rescue her again,” Gerran said. “Here, Nicedd, when you were helping bury the dead, did you see any of those Boarsmen you spoke of?”
“I did, my lord, and I meant to tell you, too.” Nicedd paused to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. “Three of them, and I know they were Boars because they had their blasted pig tattooed right here.” He pointed to his right cheek. “Must have hurt, that. And speaking of hurt, my lord, how’s the shoulder?”
“It’s just a bruise.” Gerran spoke through gritted teeth.
“In a most vulnerable spot.” Salamander waved a piece of cheese in his direction. “Do you truly want to fight without a shield?”
Gerran bit into his flatbread.
“Ignore me all you want.” Salamander was grinning at him. “But Dar told me to ensure that you went to one of the chirurgeons tonight. So hurry up and eat.”
The chirurgeons had set up their gear and supplies on the tail-gates of several wagons in front of the temple. By lantern light a stick-thin fellow that Gerran recognized from Dun Cengarn examined his bruised shoulder. Raddyn grunted to himself, then shrugged and poked at the bruise with a finger.
“That hurt?” he asked.
“A bit,” Gerran said through gritted teeth.
“No doubt. It doesn’t look good, but it’s too shallow for me to stitch. Wear your padding tonight when you try to sleep. If it’s still bad on the morrow, come to me in the daylight when I can see better.”
“I’ll do that, and my thanks for the advice on the padding. I wish I’d thought of that last night.”
With Salamander’s help, Gerran put his shirt back on. They left the chirurgeon to tend to the badly wounded and walked back through the camp.
“Told you it was just a bruise,” Gerran said.
“That is not precisely what the fellow apprised you of, not that I have much faith in him,” Salamander said. “I’ll wager Prince Dar keeps you out of the fight on the morrow, too.”
After another near-sleepless night, Gerran woke early. When he stood up, the shoulder ached, but even more, it itched. He reached over the shoulder with his good arm and got his hand under his shirt and padding, but his fingers couldn’t quite reach the bruise. The entire area felt hot to the touch. He managed to scratch around the edges, although he cursed himself for doing so as soon as he took his hand away. Dried blood caked under his fingernails, and fresh blood stained his fingertips, streaking his dirty hands. Worst of all, the itch resumed, twice as strong. I’m as bad as that blasted dragon, he thought. I’d best leave it alone.
Much to Gerran’s annoyance, Salamander proved right about the prince’s orders. When the army broke camp, Daralanteriel put Gerran in charge of the baggage train. Along with the provision carts, Gerran would command the servants, the wounded, and an escort of fifteen swordsmen and five archers. Gerran disposed the escort along the line, then took up his position just in front of the first wagon with his page and his silver dagger. When the main body rode out, the baggage train creaked along behind them. After a mile or so, the fighting men ahead had ridden out of sight.
“It won’t be so dusty now,” Clae announced. “That’ll make the ride better, won’t it, my lord?”
Gerran didn’t bother replying.
“Is somewhat wrong, my lord?” Clae said.
“He’s sulking, lad,” Nicedd said with a grin. “Well, begging your pardon and all, my lord.”
Gerran thought of a few choice insults, then decided that it was beneath his dignity to voice them.
Here and there stood coppices or a straggle of second-growth woodland, but mostly the road ran through fields of sprouting winter wheat and meadows fenced with stone walls, although they passed not a single cow or sheep. No doubt the Horsekin had taken the lot. Since no one remained to harvest the grain, the local deer would have