unconcerned.
Alwin and the Tsurani Strike Leader looked at each other, but nothing was said, simply a nod of a head. Both understood the other and what had just played outâ¦and what would eventually have to be played out. For the moment though, fire, a hot meal, drying out, and a few minutes of sleep were more important.
Richard, no longer comfortable in his corner by the fire, stood up and moved away. None of the other men in his company looked at him, or even acted as if they had noticed the encounter, but he could sense their indifference, or far worse, their contempt.
He looked around the crowded room. Cloaks, blankets, jerkins, boots, and footwrappings hung suspended from the low rafters, casting strange shadows in the firelight. Part of the ceiling, caved in by the assault, was roughly tacked over with a torn tent and a steady trickle of icy water puddled down from it onto the floor. Bunks of the former inhabitants had been looted for dry blankets, clothing, anything dry and warm. The room stank of wet wool, leather, sweat, the stew andâDarvan was indeed right, the Tsurani did smell differentâa musky scent. Watching a pair of Tsurani take a small pouch out of their packs and add a pinch of a pungent spice to their bowls of stew, Richard decided that was where the scent came from, but it was disquieting, somehow emphasizing their alien nature.
Gregory, Alwin, and the man Richard thought of as âthe Tsurani sergeantâ paced back and forth, keeping an eye on everyone, ready to quell any explosion before it ignited.
Richard spotted Father Corwin, kneeling in the far corner of the room where the wounded lay. A dozen men of the company had various injuries acquired over the last two days. Of the eight from the encounter in the forest clearing, not one was still alive. The four who had survived the long night march to Brendanâs Stockade had been left behind in the retreat, their throats cut to spare them the agony of falling into the hands of the moredhel.
Richard moved over to the priest and looked down. He didnât know the name of the soldier the priest was treating, but he was young, features pale, sweat beading his face. He had suffered a broken leg in their crashing assault down into the stockade. Corwin had set the leg with the help of a couple of men and was tying off the splint, talking soothingly as if comforting a child.
âWill I be able to walk in the morning?â the soldier asked.
âWeâll worry about that then, son.â
The young soldier looked up at Richard.
âI could help him,â Richard ventured.
âWeâll ask the Captain,â the priest replied, but Richard could tell by his tone that the answer would be no. Either the boy walked on his own or died.
Corwin patted the soldier reassuringly on the shoulder, stood up, and looked over to where a Tsurani lay with a crossbow bolt buried deep in his upper thigh. A comrade was by his side, trying to get him to take a little food.
âPoor bastard,â Corwin sighed and without hesitation went over and knelt beside him. The two looked at Corwin, turning to him masklike visages on which there was no expression. They looked straight through Corwin and Richard as if they didnât even exist.
âReally got you,â Corwin said quietly, motioning to the arrow.
The two said nothing.
âGot to get it out sooner or later.â
Again no response.
âDamn it, donât they take care of their wounded?â Richard asked.
âItâs obvious they donât have a chirugeon with them,â replied the Priest of Sung. âThis arrowâs in deep. I guess they figure theyâll just leave him hereâno sense in putting him through the agony of trying to get it out. Richard, go fetch me some boiling water and I want youto take these two knives, stick one in the fire for a minute or so, the second one, leave it in the fire.â
As he spoke he drew two small daggers
Alwin and the Tsurani Strike Leader looked at each other, but nothing was said, simply a nod of a head. Both understood the other and what had just played outâ¦and what would eventually have to be played out. For the moment though, fire, a hot meal, drying out, and a few minutes of sleep were more important.
Richard, no longer comfortable in his corner by the fire, stood up and moved away. None of the other men in his company looked at him, or even acted as if they had noticed the encounter, but he could sense their indifference, or far worse, their contempt.
He looked around the crowded room. Cloaks, blankets, jerkins, boots, and footwrappings hung suspended from the low rafters, casting strange shadows in the firelight. Part of the ceiling, caved in by the assault, was roughly tacked over with a torn tent and a steady trickle of icy water puddled down from it onto the floor. Bunks of the former inhabitants had been looted for dry blankets, clothing, anything dry and warm. The room stank of wet wool, leather, sweat, the stew andâDarvan was indeed right, the Tsurani did smell differentâa musky scent. Watching a pair of Tsurani take a small pouch out of their packs and add a pinch of a pungent spice to their bowls of stew, Richard decided that was where the scent came from, but it was disquieting, somehow emphasizing their alien nature.
Gregory, Alwin, and the man Richard thought of as âthe Tsurani sergeantâ paced back and forth, keeping an eye on everyone, ready to quell any explosion before it ignited.
Richard spotted Father Corwin, kneeling in the far corner of the room where the wounded lay. A dozen men of the company had various injuries acquired over the last two days. Of the eight from the encounter in the forest clearing, not one was still alive. The four who had survived the long night march to Brendanâs Stockade had been left behind in the retreat, their throats cut to spare them the agony of falling into the hands of the moredhel.
Richard moved over to the priest and looked down. He didnât know the name of the soldier the priest was treating, but he was young, features pale, sweat beading his face. He had suffered a broken leg in their crashing assault down into the stockade. Corwin had set the leg with the help of a couple of men and was tying off the splint, talking soothingly as if comforting a child.
âWill I be able to walk in the morning?â the soldier asked.
âWeâll worry about that then, son.â
The young soldier looked up at Richard.
âI could help him,â Richard ventured.
âWeâll ask the Captain,â the priest replied, but Richard could tell by his tone that the answer would be no. Either the boy walked on his own or died.
Corwin patted the soldier reassuringly on the shoulder, stood up, and looked over to where a Tsurani lay with a crossbow bolt buried deep in his upper thigh. A comrade was by his side, trying to get him to take a little food.
âPoor bastard,â Corwin sighed and without hesitation went over and knelt beside him. The two looked at Corwin, turning to him masklike visages on which there was no expression. They looked straight through Corwin and Richard as if they didnât even exist.
âReally got you,â Corwin said quietly, motioning to the arrow.
The two said nothing.
âGot to get it out sooner or later.â
Again no response.
âDamn it, donât they take care of their wounded?â Richard asked.
âItâs obvious they donât have a chirugeon with them,â replied the Priest of Sung. âThis arrowâs in deep. I guess they figure theyâll just leave him hereâno sense in putting him through the agony of trying to get it out. Richard, go fetch me some boiling water and I want youto take these two knives, stick one in the fire for a minute or so, the second one, leave it in the fire.â
As he spoke he drew two small daggers
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