The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [131]
“Ah, horseshit!” Gerran said. “I guess I am.”
“If we do see some stragglers, please, my lord, pull back and let the rest of us take care of them, like.”
“Depends on how many of them there are.” Yet Gerran felt his stomach turn over from the pain of straightening up again.
“Well and good, then,” Nicedd said cheerfully. “But if you get killed, who’s going to pay me my hire?”
At that Gerran could laugh, and Nicedd grinned at him.
In the event, no fleeing Horsekin came their way. They realized why when they at last reached the dun that had once been Lord Honelg’s. Made of dry stone patched randomly with mortar, the circular walls sat on top of a low artificial hill inside elaborate defenses. Ditches and earthworks wound around the hill and channeled would-be attackers into a narrow path to the gates. Apparently these defenses had served Gwerbret Ridvar’s fortguard well. At the base of the hill, blocking the road, lay an elaborate siege camp of tents guarded by another set of ditches and earthworks.
The tents, however, were burning when Gerran and his charges rode up. Greasy smoke plumed the air, and he could smell a horrible stink of burning cloth, hair, and flesh. The horses, particularly the cart horses, began to pull at their bits and dance in fear. Gerran halted the baggage train some hundreds of yards away from the smoldering flames. Salamander rode up to join him.
“The gates of the dun are open,” Salamander said, “but no one’s inside. I’d say the fortguard sallied when the battle went our way.”
“Here!” Nicedd snapped. “How can you know that?”
“Don’t ask,” Gerran said, grinning, “but take my word for it, he can.”
Nicedd again made the fist to ward off witchcraft.
“Where are the princes and the gwerbret?” Gerran asked Salamander.
“Around the other side of the hill.” Salamander rose in his stirrups to survey the smoldering camp in a more normal way. “Ah, here come some of our men now.”
Guiding nervous horses, Vantalaber and Calonderiel rode around the edge of the camp. Calonderiel hailed Gerran with a wave, then trotted his horse over with Vantalaber following.
“All the sport’s over, alas,” Cal said. “We killed most of them. Unfortunately, some squads broke through our line and headed north. Probably thirty men in all, as far as I could tell. They’d rallied around a banner with their wretched goddess’ bow and arrows on it. We tried to take it from them, but that’s when they bolted.”
“Is anyone following?” Gerran said.
“They’re not. Dar was worried that they might lead our men into a trap. There’s got to be a larger force off to the north somewhere.”
“What about their prisoners?” Salamander leaned forward in his saddle. “The ones they took for slaves, I mean.”
“We saved as many as we could.” Cal made a sour face. “When they realized they were beaten, they started killing the women.”
“What?” Salamander sat back, and he looked utterly stunned. “Alshandra worshipers, killing helpless women?”
Calonderiel shrugged. “All I know is what I saw.”
Salamander turned his horse out of line and trotted off, heading around the smoldering ruins.
“It was a cursed horrible thing to see, truly,” Calonderiel said. “No wonder he’s troubled. Here, Gerro, let’s get these wagons around to our camp. The chirurgeons need supplies.”
“We took losses?” Gerran said.
“The Deverry men did. None of them are Westfolk or our vassals. We’ve got wounded, though.”
Gerran turned the baggage train over to Calonderiel and went looking for Mirryn with Nicedd and Clae trailing after him. He found his foster brother eventually on the far side of the dun. Although the smoke hung thick in the air, some of the Red Wolf men were already setting up camp. Still in his mail, Mirryn was talking with Daumyr, who had a shallow cut down one side of his face. When Gerran started to dismount to join them, he briefly rested his left hand on his pommel. The pain in his shoulder flared up without warning, so badly that he swore aloud.
“You’re truly hurt,” Mirryn said. “And don’t tell me it’s just a bruise.”
“A bad bruise, then,” Gerran said.