The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [132]
“Just a scratch, my lord,” Daumyr said. “Close as I can tell, his blade bounced off the nasal of my helmet. Him being the Horsekin I was killing, I mean. The hairy bastards! Did you hear about the women?”
“I did, and it aches my heart.”
“Our captain here,” Daumyr went on with a grin Mirryn’s way, “distinguished himself on the field again. Prince Dar his very self commended him.”
“Oh, now here!” Mirryn stared at the ground. “It was but a small thing.”
“Oh, was it? I’ll want to hear about that tonight.” Gerran paused, looking around. “There’s Salamander. I need to have a word with him.”
Salamander had seen him. The gerthddyn waved, then waited for him to catch up.
“That woman you spoke of,” Gerran said, “did you find her?”
“I did, and alive, with her baby and daughters with her.” Salamander looked vastly relieved. “Mirryn saved her life, actually. One of the Horsekin was about to kill her, but Mirryn charged up behind him and cut his head half off his shoulders. Canna’s dress is dappled with his blood, as is the baby, in fact, a grim decoration for the pair of them. I’ve high-handedly promised her a place serving in your new dun. I hope you don’t mind.”
Gerran smiled, just because the gesture was so like Salamander. “Not in the least,” he said. “I’ll take her back to my wife when we return to the Red Wolf dun.”
“My humble thanks.” Salamander was studying his face. “Gerran, the shoulder’s bad, isn’t it? You could sit down somewhere.”
“Sitting only makes things worse, because then I’ll have to get up again.” Gerran tried swinging his arm, slowly and gingerly. Pain stopped him. “I wouldn’t mind some help taking this mail off, though. The weight of it’s beginning to vex me. The cursed bruise feels swollen or suchlike, and the mail rubs a bit.”
“A bit!” Salamander rolled his eyes heavenward. “Clae, get over here! Your lord needs you. Wait for me here, Gerro. I’m going to go to the Westfolk camp. I’ll wager my old friend Danalaurel’s brought mead with him, and a good long drink of that will do you good.”
With the mail off, and the mead drunk, the throbbing sensation receded, though again, it never entirely went away. Pain or no, Gerran still felt that he’d done too little that day to justify his presence among men who’d fought two battles that he’d missed. When some of the servants asked for a guard to accompany them to a nearby coppice, just off to the west, to look for firewood, he took Nicedd along and went with them.
By then the sun hung low on the horizon, and the long shadows of the trees lay across the weed-choked field. Some distance to the north, mist rose from the river that once had watered fertile land, and that would again, no doubt, once the Mountain Folk took possession of the dun. The three menservants were chattering among themselves, and Gerran was thinking of very little, when Nicedd suddenly spoke.
“Hold!” he said. “There’s someone in those trees.”
Gerran shaded his eyes with his hand. “So there is.” He turned to the servants. “Wait here.”
Gerran drew his sword and stubbornly took the lead as he and Nicedd strode the remainder of the way across to the coppice. Their prey, such as he was, made no effort to escape but lay still among the second-growth saplings. At first Gerran thought he was dead, but when they approached him, the Horsekin sat up with a groan. Though he wore a mail hauberk, he lacked a falcata. He used his left hand to hold his right arm tight across his chest, because his right hand hung useless, covered with dried blood and, judging from the angles of his fingers, broken in more than one place.
“Disarmed with a good stroke, it looks like,” Nicedd said.
“It does,” Gerran said. “Nicedd, take a good look around. There might be another man hiding in here.” He turned back to the enemy. “As for you, get up!”
The Horsekin managed to rise to a kneel, swayed, and slumped back to sit on his heels. He used his good hand to pull off his helmet, revealing a brush of short dark hair, slick with sweat. Gerran knew enough about the Horsekin by then to realize