Renegade's Magic ss-3 Page 45

  Twice his meandering course brought him closer to the road than he liked. At intervals, he heard angry horns blaring out to one another. The Gernian troops were up, mounted, and hunting for Speck stragglers. He tried to cheer himself by thinking of how adept the Specks were at blending into the forest, but I pointed out to him that what worked in summer did not in winter. Bushes were skeletons, bare of obscuring leaves now. Men left tracks in snow.

  Midmorning was gone by the time Soldier’s Boy reached the place where they had all camped the night before. At first he was heartened to see that others had arrived there first. He recognized the horse that Dasie had ridden and a number of her warriors. He gritted his teeth to think that she had probably succeeded where he had failed; the town fires had burned well, and she seemed to have withdrawn her troops in good order. She sat on a fallen log, her wide back to him, in front of a small fire. He smelled cooking food and, despite his rumbling stomach, scowled at that; there should be no fires just now, nothing that might give a hint as to where they waited.

  All such considerations were driven from his mind when one of Dasie’s feeders saw him. The man gave a cry of relief and leapt up from where he had crouched beside his Great One’s feet. He ran through the snow toward Soldier’s Boy and the beseeching hands he lifted to him were red to the elbow with fresh blood. He was crying out his words even before he reached Soldier Boy’s stirrup.

  “I cannot stop her bleeding, Great One, and she says her magic is gone. They have shot her with iron! Quick, come quick, you must take it out and heal her!”

  Such faith they had in him, and all of it misplaced. The warrior tried to take hold of Clove’s bridle with his bloody hands. The big horse had had enough. He threw back his immense head and even managed to rear slightly. Soldier’s Boy had already loosened one foot from the stirrup preparing to dismount. When Clove came down, he came off his horse, awkwardly. Miraculously, he stayed on his feet and didn’t twist his knee, but he staggered sideways in the snow before he stood. He brushed off the efforts of Dasie’s guard to support him. “Where is she shot?” he demanded curtly. “Show me.”

  His heart had left his body in despair. He knew next to nothing of how to doctor a gunshot wound, but for now he could not show it. He followed the man to Dasie’s side. A simmering kettle of porridge sent up a wave of steam and aroma. He turned his face toward it, his eyes half closing of their own accord. He longed for it, his body gone mindless with hunger. The guard could see it. “Great One, see to her, please. While you do, I will prepare food for you.”

  He should have told them to put out the fire immediately. Instead, he nodded numbly and turned toward Dasie. She didn’t look good. She gave him no greeting, but hunched round-shouldered on her log seat, her hands clasped over her belly. Her other feeder was on his knees before her in the snow, his warrior’s sword discarded. As Soldier’s Boy approached, the young man looked up at him, barely controlled panic in his eyes. With both hands, he held a dripping red cloth against Dasie’s lower leg. “I think the bone is broken,” he said, and his voice shook. “Can you heal her?”

  No. “Let me look at it.”

  Dasie still didn’t make a sound as Soldier’s Boy got down awkwardly on his knees before her. Her face was white, whiter than the cold would make it. All around her foot, the snow had been melted away by bright red blood. “Get me some rope, a string, a tie, a leather thong, anything I can bind around her leg. And bring a small stick, too,” he commanded her other feeder. To the boy who held the bandage, he said, “Keep it firm. Put pressure on it.”

  “But that hurts her! Because it’s right on the break of the bone.”

  “We have to keep her from bleeding to death. Hold it firm,” Soldier’s Boy commanded him. He saw the boy’s hands tighten, but gingerly, as if he gripped an egg. Not enough to stem the flow of blood. Irritably, he reached down to set his own hands over the feeder’s and push the grip tighter. Instead, reflexively, his hands jerked back from her injury. Iron. There was iron in there and it burned against his magic. He could only imagine the agony for Dasie, yet she sat silent and impassive. He had to admire her courage.

  He looked up into her face. Her eyes stared straight ahead. “Dasie?” he said softly.

  Her feeder shook his head. “She has had to leave us, to escape the pain. If we cause her too great a pain, it will pull her back. For now, she is in stillness.”

  Soldier’s Boy nodded curtly. He did not entirely understand but decided that didn’t matter. The other feeder brought him, finally, a long strip of woven fabric and a stick. Dasie gave a small shudder and moan when he first touched her leg. He placed his tourniquet above her knee, and turned the stick. He watched, sickened, as the fabric bit deeper and deeper into her fleshy thigh. “Take away your hands. Has the bleeding stopped?” he asked the feeder who knelt beside him.

  Slowly the man took away the cloth he held and then peeled off another sodden wrapping under it. The wound still oozed blood, but not as it had. Soldier’s Boy felt he could not kneel there another moment. “Clean it well and wrap it fresh. One of you will have to hold the stick as you do. Wait a little while, then loosen the stick and see if the bleeding has stopped. If it bleeds again, tighten the stick. The most important thing now is to keep her from bleeding to death.”

  They looked aghast at him. The one holding the tourniquet spoke first. “Can’t you heal her with magic? She can heal all sorts of hurts with magic. Cannot you?”

  “Not while there is iron in there. I cannot so much as put my hands to her wound. We need to get her back to the pass and then home, to where skilled healers can remove the bullet.”

  Both her feeders looked frightened. “But…can you quick-walk her to the pass if she has iron in her? How will we get her there?”

  “I will try my best. If I cannot quick-walk her there, we will use the horses to get her there as quickly as we can. More than that, I cannot do.”

  Both feeders stared at him, one with his mouth hanging open in shocked disappointment. He had betrayed their trust, the looks said. It was not the first time someone had looked at him that way today. He pushed the memory of Spink’s face away and then tried to stand. He didn’t think he could until he felt someone take his arm and help him to his feet. He turned to see Sempayli.

  “I am glad to see you reached here safely, Great One. I brought the others as best I could.”

  And then he had to turn his head and see the men who had gathered round them as he tried to help Dasie. These were the men he had left to fend for themselves. They stood staring at him. Soot, smoke, and in a few cases, blood obscured their speckled faces. They wore the same expressions that weary soldiers always wore, no matter whose side they fought on, no matter if they had tasted victory or been drenched in defeat. They were cold, they were tired, they were hungry, and they had seen things that no man should have looked on, done things that no man should have to do. He had expected to see anger and disappointment in their faces as well, and the bitterness of defeat, but if they felt it, it did not show there. They were new to war-making. It was possible they did not know whether to consider it a victory or a defeat.

  It came to him then that they had accepted his right to ride off and leave them to fend for themselves. He was a Great One, full of power, and he made his own rules. These were not Gernian soldiers, trained to have certain expectations of their leaders. There was no contract of command between him and these men. They had expected of him only what he had taught them to expect. He had told them, over and over, that they must obey him, that they must not run away from battle. But he had never told them that if things went against them, he would not desert them.

  And so they had not expected that of him. It was not a Speck value. It was a Gernian value. And still it scalded him that he had not lived up to that value and that expectation.

  “Perhaps, beneath it all, you are still more Gernian than you know. And unfit to command these warriors.” I pushed my words to the forefront of his mind.


  “Be silent!” His hatred of me, of the Gernian part of him, buffeted me so strongly that I felt I spun in nothingness. It was all I could do to keep a firm grip on my sense of self.

  When I gained access to the world again, time had passed. Darkness was around me. Soldier’s Boy quick-walked us through snowy forest. Behind us, Clove dragged a makeshift travois. One of Dasie’s feeder-guards led him. The other carried a torch beside it. Through Soldier’s Boy’s eyes, I peered around me into the darkness. We moved with a very small force, perhaps no more than a dozen men. Had his losses been that heavy? I thought I had seen more men than that by Dasie’s campfire, but perhaps—Even as my spirits rose, Soldier’s Boy dashed them. “You have been absent for days, fool. I quick-walked our force back to the pass. Then Jodoli helped me quick-walk a healer back to Dasie. The healer was able to get the iron out of her leg. Now we take her to where she can find warmth and food and rest.”

  Something in his voice spilled his secret to me. “She’s still going to die. Her wound is poisoned.”

  He struck me again, but not as hard. In the weakness of his blow, even as I spun in darkness, I read that he was cold, very hungry, and that his magic had been drained. More quietly than a spider, I righted myself and then pawed through his memories of his last few miserable days.

  He had failed everyone. Nearly a third of his small force had been killed or captured. I’d been right about the troops. They’d tracked down and shot all the stragglers they could find. It had been sheer luck that they hadn’t discovered Dasie. When he had quick-walked the remains of his army to the pass, Kinrove’s first words to him had been, “But where are the others?” Soldier’s Boy had not even been able to answer. They had read it in his face.

  Jodoli’s words had laid bare a great fear. “So we have failed. And now that they know of our war against them, they will turn their guns on us at every sight of us. We will not even be able to use the Dust Dance against them. We had only one chance to succeed, one chance to surprise and destroy them. It is gone. They will always be waiting for us now, and always with iron. The hatred and anger of the Plain-skins will never end now, not until they have hunted us to the ends of the earth.”

  Soldier’s Boy had stood before him, his mouth filled with ashes. He could not deny even one of Jodoli’s statements.

  Kinrove had smiled. There was sadness in his smile but also satisfaction. “You and Dasie were so certain that you knew a better way than my dance. What have you done to us? How many more dancers must I take now from the People to try to keep our ancestor trees safe?” He had looked at Jodoli then, and spoken only to him, dismissing Soldier’s Boy as a mage without wisdom. “I must leave you here, Jodoli, to bring our warriors home as well as you can. For I must go quickly now to my dancers, to add what strength I can to their work, and to prepare another summons to add dancers to my ranks. The fury of the intruders will give them some shield from my magic. If I do not block and quail them now, they will break through my barriers and ravage the ancestor trees simply to spite us. And they may hunt those who remain on the wrong side of the mountains, even to following our tracks here to our secret pass. I must go, and see if I can undo a little of the damage these two impetuous youngsters have done to the People.”

  And, as simply as that, Kinrove had resumed his mantle of power and authority. The Greatest of the Great had turned and left them, quick-walking himself and a few of his key people away. In a moment, they had vanished, some taken in midtask. Jodoli hadn’t looked at Soldier’s Boy. Firada had come to stand at his shoulder, her eyes hard, as her Great One said, “I have much work to do here. Choose the healer you wish and I’ll help you quick-walk him back to Dasie. I will do what I can for the people here. But beyond that, I will have no extra strength to help you.” He turned his back on Soldier’s Boy and walked away.

  Just as Soldier’s Boy thought that nothing could plunge him more deeply into despair, Olikea spoke from behind him. “So. We have failed. And I have lost my son forever to Kinrove’s dance.” He did not turn to face her. I felt his shoulders sag beneath the burden of her words. She came closer to him and he waited for her fury. But after a time, she touched his shoulder lightly and offered in a deadened voice, “I will make food for you. Before you have to go back.”

  One word. “We.” Despite the sadness in her voice, despite her obvious resignation to his failure, she had said “we.” It was the tiniest speck of comfort he could imagine, but it was the only bit of comfort he had been offered. Tears stung his eyes. It woke a deeper shame in him, and added a more personal price to his failure. Despite his hunger, cold, weariness, and despair, it woke a spark of determination in him. He felt a resolve form in himself. If he failed in all other things, he would not fail in this.

  I do not know if Soldier’s Boy was aware of me rummaging through his memories or if the moment came back to him on its own. “I will do what I must,” he said softly. He spoke as a man who fastens his courage to an idea, determined he will follow it through. “What are you planning?” I asked him, but he didn’t see fit to answer me. Instead, head down to the cold wind, he walked on. The dark forest rippled past us in the stuttering pace of his quick-walk. I could feel the magic gush from him with every step he took, like blood leaping from a nicked artery. He did not have much reserve left. I think he heard my thought.

  “I’ll get us there,” he said doggedly. One of his men glanced back at his muttered comment, but said nothing.

  Night was deep when we reached the pass. The camp we had made in the first sheltered section was nearly deserted. A fire burned to welcome us, and Olikea had been keeping soup hot over it. The moment we arrived, a dozen of Dasie’s feeders and guards converged on her. They had their own fire burning, and a bed of pine boughs and furs awaiting her, along with all sorts of savory foods. Soldier’s Boy watched them bear her away and felt rebuked by how they snatched her away from his stewardship. Obviously, they felt he had failed her; now that they had her back, they wanted nothing to do with him.

  He bowed his head and turned to his own fire and Olikea who waited for him. She had built a pallet of boughs and blankets for him, not as elaborate as that prepared for Dasie, but more than adequate. She helped him to remove some of his outer garments and offered him soft warm slippers in place of the ice-crusted boots she pulled from his feet. She had warmed water for him to wash his face and hands, and a soft cloth for him to dry them. That such simple comforts could bring so great a relief! Silently, her face grave, she motioned him to sit down while she served the food. He was surprised to see both Jodoli and Firada seated there as well. “I thought you would have gone home,” he said brusquely to them.

  Jodoli’s response was grave. “I thought you might need help to quick-walk Dasie and her feeders home. The last time I saw you, you seemed very tired.”

  He was. Too tired to hold on to his anger. He sighed in resignation. “In truth, I would welcome your help,” he said simply.

  Jodoli said, “In the morning, then.” And for a time, there were few other words as Olikea served all of them the soup she had kept warm for him. It was a good soup, thick and rich with meat and mushrooms. With every sip of it, Soldier’s Boy felt warmth and strength returning to his body. He glanced over at Dasie’s larger fire. Her feeders still clustered around her, bees tending their queen. Despite having her restored to them, they made a low hum that was anxious rather than comforted.

  Dasie had scarcely spoken a word to him since they had met after the battle. Her feeders had told him several times that she had retreated to another place to avoid the pain of her injury. But even the removal of the iron from her leg had not summoned her back. He had seen the injury. The ball had hit the bone, shattering it, and then wedged amid the broken pieces. The healer who had removed it had taken out the iron, picked out small bone fragments, cleaned it, and bound the wound closed. The healer had not approved of Soldier’s Boy’s tourniquet, but had been glad to see that Dasie reacted when he pricked her toes.

&nb
sp; “Now that the iron is out, she will begin to heal herself,” one of her guards had declared confidently. Soldier’s Boy was not so sure of that. He thought that her retreat into herself might not be solely because of her wound. The injury to her spirit might be more severe than that to her leg. He had heard tales of young soldiers who never recovered fully from their first sight of battle. From the little her guards had told him, their firing of the town and slaughtering of the residents as they fled had been “successful,” if that was a word to apply to such a task. Dasie had been active and enthusiastic in the setting of the fires, and had herself slain an innkeeper and his three grown sons when they had tumbled from their beds and come outside in their nightshirts to fight the flames.

  But the guard had also spoken of a woman who threw an infant from an upstairs window in an effort to save her before she, nightgown in flames, leapt to her death. The guard had chased down two little boys who held hands as they fled barefoot through the streets. He had spoken with relish of his task, reliving that brief satiation of his hatred, and Soldier’s Boy had agreed with him that he had done exactly what had needed to be done. But he wondered now if Dasie had truly understood what her task would be and what she would witness when she had ridden down on Gettys. Specks were not by nature or culture a folk of violent confrontations. Even within their own villages and kin-clans, blows seldom settled arguments. He wondered if his plan had pushed her beyond her will to save her people. I felt little sympathy for her. She had looked on what her hatred had prompted. Good. Let her realize it.

  “There was no other solution,” Soldier’s Boy said to me. “The Gernians forced us to it. We had tried everything else we could think of to make them go away or at least respect our territory. We had to do it.”