The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [205]
‘I suppose they figured that women would be more naturally peaceful, more inclined to civilized things.’
‘No, they weren’t that stupid.’ She softened the words with a smile. ‘It was simply a question of replacing a group that had made horrible decisions with a group that hadn’t. Besides, since the women wouldn’t be riding to war, they’d live longer than the male leaders had.’
‘Good reasons, then.’
‘But it’s true that when war comes, women have more to lose than the men.’
‘Indeed? What?’
‘Our children, of course. Who else does the fighting, but our children?’ Dallandra’s little smile suddenly froze, then disappeared. She flung up her hands to cover her face and wept.
Salamander sat stunned, then hesitantly laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Dalla?’ he said. ‘Should I go get Cal?’
‘No.’ She was fighting back her tears. ‘He’ll only make things worse.’ She turned away and pulled over a saddlebag, brought out a linen bandage, and used it to wipe her face. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.’
‘The times call for it, I suppose.’
‘Yes.’ She looked down at the bandage in her hands. ‘Yes, I suppose they do.’
In the morning, the portion of the army that would be pulling back marched off north, heading for the ford. The last of the rearguard had just disappeared from sight when the dragons returned. The commanders rushed out to greet them and hear their reports. With the wounded gone, Dallandra had nothing to do but wonder what they’d discovered. Now and then she allowed herself a brief hope that no Horsekin reinforcements would appear, but she wasn’t in the least surprised when those hopes proved foolish.
‘They’re on their way, all right,’ Calonderiel told her. ‘But the army’s not all that large, and it’s short on cavalry. Those heavy horses of theirs are hard to come by. We’ve killed a good many of them—too many. It’s a pity, really, but that’s war.’
‘Are the dragons still here? I need to look at Rori’s wound again.’
‘Please do. It stinks as bad as burning wolf shit.’
Dallandra’s assistants had all kept an eye out for leeches at every stream or pond they’d come across. Ranadario, in fact, had been hunting that very morning. When Dalla went to look for her, she found Ranadario out among the scrub, where a slow rivulet ran down towards the Galan Targ.
‘Dalla, Dalla, look!’ Ranadario hurried over, lugging a big pottery jar. ‘I found some!’
At the bottom of the water in the jar lay what appeared to be a heap of grey slime. When Ranadario shook the jar, the heap uncoiled itself into several handfuls of fresh-water leeches, all of them hungry, judging by how pale their tubular bodies were.
‘Wonderful!’ Dallandra said. ‘They’re beautiful specimens. Now I need to fetch our dragon.’
Rori was quite willing to come and be treated. He followed her to the beaten-down area of grass where Ranadario was waiting with the jar of leeches, jars of herb water and wash water, and the various implements and salves they’d need.
‘Lie down on your side,’ Dallandra said. ‘I don’t want the leeches falling off into the grass.’
‘Can they live out of the water?’ Rori said.
‘Not for long. We’ll keep them moist while they’re feeding. Well, if they will feed.’
Rori stretched out both pairs of legs and flopped over onto his side, making the ground tremble under her feet. While Ranadario held the jar, Dallandra fished out a leech with wooden tongs and laid it on top of a stripe of blackened flesh at the very edge of the wound. The creature squirmed, then sank its larger mouth into the black flesh and attached itself with the smaller. In only a few moments its colour turned a faint pink. Dallandra sighed in relief. Apparently the leeches liked the taste of dragon well enough.
‘Can you feel that?’ Dallandra said.
‘No,’ Rori said.
‘It’s definitely morbid, then. Let’s see how much this batch of leeches will eat.’
‘There’s lots more in the stream,’ Ranadario said. ‘When I was collecting