Crusader

Chapter 47

Martaina

The walk was long and painful, even with J’anda to help her shoulder some of Cattrine’s dead weight. Though she didn’t wish to say it, she could plainly tell the enchanter was not nearly as strong as she, not nearly so capable of feats of strength, and so she suffered under as much of the woman’s burden as she could carry. At least she is only a healthy woman, not excessively weighty, as some are. Though now I wish she were Aisling; the woman is a twi, and would surely be much easier to carry than the Baroness, who was certainly well-fed if not well-treated …

The birds were chirping in the trees above her; they had hurried on, avoiding the slope that had required them to slide down before entering the camp. They took a half-mile detour that had them on the road, watching for any sort of traffic. Not far, by Martaina’s estimate, was the place where Cyrus’s body had been found. Hopefully Aisling got his head back to them and in time …

They came upon the very bend, the place where it had happened. There was nothing there but a bloody mess to mark the passage of events, nothing to show but the disturbed dirt that was as readable to her as any book was to a priest-perhaps moreso, depending on the dialect of the ground. She could see footprints, the places where the Sanctuary warriors had trod, dragging something with them back toward camp. There were other tracks, too, fresher ones, smaller, more dainty, leading out of the woods. “Aisling brought the head back here,” she said. “From here, I think they dragged his body back to camp. Though,” she conceded, “with or without the head, I cannot say.”

J’anda made no reply. The enchanter was thin, dangerously so. Between her and me, we would be able to carry him along easier than J’anda and I laboring under just her weight. To the enchanter, who was shouldering as much of the burden as his lean frame allowed, she said nothing.

The camp was in motion when they arrived, armored men moving about, the shine of the late afternoon sun catching on their armor, which was dull and unpolished after the long marches and recent idleness. She could smell the camp scent again. There was a quiet in the air, too. It was not as a meadow at midday to her ears (which was still quite loud) but neither was it as active as the camp had been before. The weight of the leather on her shoulders was nothing compared to the numbness setting in on her right arm where the Baroness had been perched for the last twenty minutes. Her mouth was dry and she craved water, but had feared to set Cattrine down not only for the woman’s own health but because she wondered if she would be able to get her up and moving again should she stop.

“Ahoy!” The call took her by surprise, even as she walked past the sentries, one of whom was Odellan, whom she noticed late.

“Ahoy?” J’anda called back, struggling under the Baroness’s weight, “have you gone nautical?”

“What?” Odellan said, approaching them. He reached out and took up Cattrine’s weight, picking her up. She was wrapped in J’anda’s outer robes, and the dark elf looked odd with only his tunic and pants underneath, both simple cloth and as close to the opposite of his rich red garb as possible. Odellan lifted the Baroness, cradling her in his arms. “I served on a galley on the River Perda early in my career.”

“Oh, good,” J’anda said, “for a moment I thought perhaps a career in piracy was in the offing.”

“An Endrenshan of the Elven Kingdom would not stoop to such a low,” Odellan said, adjusting the Baroness in his arms as he started through the small tent city of the encampment, Martaina and J’anda following behind. “Though another two months encamped here and this soldier might consider a pirate’s life.”

“Are you taking us to Curatio?” Martaina asked. Her mind was racing, her body fatigued, and she wondered how far away the healer was. He can still fix her wounds, make her whole again … physically, at least …. “Did they manage to resurrect Cyrus?”

“I remain uncertain,” Odellan said, carrying Cattrine against his mystical, shining armor, still polished even now, the carving in the breastplate filling the lines with blood from the Baroness. “I would assume a call would go up over the camp when the news made its way out, but I have heard nothing as yet.” Odellan’s already unexpressive face took a further downward turn. “Which, as you know, for an elf, is disquieting to say the least.”

“It means there’s likely nothing to be heard as yet,” Martaina said.

“Aye.” Odellan circuited the last campfire as they came upon a tent that Martaina knew had been used by the few healers who had come along on the expedition as a communal quarters. Warriors bunk with warriors, for whatever reason, rangers with rangers, and wielders of magic flock together as surely as any fowl of the waters. He didn’t even duck as he pushed his way through the tent flap, Martaina only a step behind him.

The smell in the tent was horrible, blood overwhelming, more of it possibly than even at the scene of the attack, though it wasn’t as confined a space. There was a lamp burning, too, and the oil helped cover it only a bit. The tent was long, at least twenty feet, and ten wide. There were three healers all huddled in the corner, and Martaina could see Curatio on his knees, between the others, who stood with their backs to the flap.

“We have another who needs help here,” Odellan announced, and one of the healers, a human, sprang toward him immediately, leading the elf to the corner where he laid the Baroness down upon a flat bedroll covered in a thin white sheet. Martaina watched for just a moment and knew that however the sheet had started, it was no longer white.

“Did you manage in time?” J’anda asked, stealing Martaina’s question before she could ask it. She held her tongue out of habit, realizing only now that she was the only non-officer, non-healer in the room save for those being healed. Ignoring the pain in her shoulder from carrying Cattrine at the distance she had, she was in fine condition-especially compared to the man who lost his head only an hour ago. Oh, Vidara, let it have been less than an hour ago.

Curatio’s face was lined by the shadow of the tent, lit by the faint orange glow of the lamp. “It was in time.” He ran a hand along his forehead, one drenched in blood that left markings in the lines of his brow. “Only just, I think, and because his head has been separated for some time, our healing efforts have been unable to fully repair the damage. Still,” he took a breath and blew it out through his lips, which seemed to have lost all their color in the darkness of the tent, “he is alive, and well enough for now, though unconscious. I would not be surprised if he developed a fever over this, though.”

“But he’ll live?” Martaina let her breath hang in her lungs, as though she dare not chance to believe she had heard it correctly.

“He’ll live,” Curatio said, “but with a scar across his neck, I’d expect. A thin one but there, from what we weren’t able to heal. It appears minimal, almost superficial, as I can heal somewhat more powerfully than most, but … it is there. He’ll need to travel in the wagon as we begin our journey north.”

I saved him, Thad, Martaina thought. I was faithful to my word … in this way. “Why are we moving the army north?” Martaina’s surprise at the question coming from her was genuine; she had not realized she asked it until it was out. A feeling of giddiness had flooded her, blotting out the pain of her arm.

“The scourge is sweeping through these lands,” J’anda said in answer. “It is … a problem we must deal with for several reasons. Especially since Sanctuary and Syloreas will be the only ones to stand between it and the balance of Luukessia.”

“You are wrong,” came a voice from the corner. It was faint, but stronger than when last Martaina had heard it. She turned, and Cattrine was sitting up on the bedroll, Odellan and the human healer at her side. “Actaluere will send its army north to aid you. I have seen to it.” Her face was still pale, white, and her eyes were sunken, as though she were already dead. I have not seen a more haunted and beleaguered look on a face since the night Termina fell.

“You were under the protection of Sanctuary, m’lady,” Curatio said, standing from where he had been at Cyrus’s bedroll. Martaina caught her first glimpse of the warrior; he looked almost normal, though his chest was bare and there was an accumulation of congealed blood about his throat. His chest rose and fell in a normal rhythm, though, and she felt her breathing return to normal and her focus shift back to Curatio.

“I no longer require it,” Cattrine said and, clutching the fabric of the robes closer to her figure, she stood tentatively, reminding Martaina of a foal get to its feet for the first time. Phantom pain, the searing agony that stays even after the flesh is knitted together. She is no doubt feeling it harshly now. “I’ll be making my way back to the Actaluere camp to rejoin my husband. Because of that, Actaluere will not go to war with Galbadien and my brother will be freed to send his troops north with Briyce Unger.”

“What a complicated little web we find ourselves in,” J’anda said.

“M’lady,” Curatio said, with a faint, almost patriarchial smile, “there will be no healer for you next time, you realize this, yes?” His hand swept the length of her. “No one will be able to save you from your husband when next he puts the whip to you, and none of us will be close at hand to soothe the damage afterward.”

Cattrine stared at him dully, then turned her back to him and let the robe slip to just above the small of her back. The other healers, humans, young-gasped at the scars, but Curatio managed to hold any reaction to himself. “I have never before had the luxury of protection from my husband, sir.” She paused, and Martaina could read the regret and fear in equal measure hidden underneath the bravery on the Baroness’s face. “And for the benefit of my people, that is a burden I will have to accept again.”