The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [138]
The ward had turned into a roughly organized mob of servants that allowed scant room for a man to wait. Neb climbed the ladder up to the catwalks on the main wall and gained a good place for a view. Far below him, the army was walking their horses through the town gates. In the warmth of the late afternoon sun, most of the riders let their horses amble up the main street, but some of the men, most likely local lads who knew the town well, broke out of line and followed a separate route through the back alleys. Behind everyone else creaked the supply wagons. The entire scene made Neb think of water flowing uphill, a fancy that made him smile.
He leaned on folded arms onto the top of the wall between two crenels and enjoyed the touch of sunlight on his back. Ever since he’d followed Salamander’s orders to stop his astral scrying and eat more food, normal life had returned to him, filled with small pleasures. His dweomerwork was progressing better and faster as well. At moments he felt like a fool or worse for dismissing Salamander for so long. Perhaps the gerthddyn had been a chattering dolt back when Nevyn knew him, but Nevyn had been dead for sixty years or so now.
And I’m alive now, he thought. He now knew who he was, Nerrobrantos, scribe to Prince Daralanteriel of the Westlands, husband to Lady Branna—not Nevyn nor Galrion, either. He had assumed that “what I am” meant “Master of the Aethyr” once again. Now he knew he’d been mistaken. His true wyrd lay with the dweomer, certainly, but perhaps with something else as well. He simply didn’t know what that something might be. Yet at the same time, he felt that the answer should be obvious, that in fact it lay close to hand.
The army began filing through the gates into the ward. Leading the way in a thicket of banners were the two princes and the gwerbret, and directly behind them, the banadar and the two noble lords. Gerran was holding both of his reins in his right hand. He’d tucked his left hand into his belt, as if the arm needed support. His posture, too, struck Neb as odd, not warrior straight, but slumped toward the right, again to favor his left side. Wounded! Neb turned away fast and grabbed the ladder, then climbed down as quickly as he could. Making his way through the packed and swarming ward took him some while.
When Neb reached them, Gerran had just dismounted while an anxious Mirryn watched. The effort of twisting his body free of the horse’s back had turned Gerran’s face pale. Clae came running and caught his lord’s elbow to steady him. Slowly the color returned to his skin, and he managed to stand without aid.
“What happened?” Neb said.
“It’s just a bruise,” Gerran said, but his voice sounded as weak as a small child’s.
“It’s not!” Mirryn snapped. “Neb, he got hit hard on the shoulder from behind. It’s a shallow cut, a split, like, from the blow, but somewhat went wrong with it.”
“Indeed?” Neb let his eyes go out of focus and considered Gerran’s aura, its usual sullen red, shot here and there with gold, but shrunken. At its strongest it extended barely a foot beyond his flesh, with one exception. Over the left shoulder the aura streamed out in a fetid greenish-gray plume that was drawing energy and life out of his body.
“I see,” Neb said. “It’s gone septic.”
“How can you tell?” Mirryn said.
“Can’t you smell it?” Neb found a quick excuse. “I know you’re all filthy from the campaign, but that stink of rot’s unmistakable.”
“Ye gods!” Mirryn said. “Should I get the chirurgeon?”
“Raddyn? Not on your life! Get our Falcon upstairs to his chamber!