Page 2 of Gryphon in Light

The Sixteenth Guard Regiment advanced to the brink of Pawta’s Wood and found a double picket of professional mixed cavalry and three lines of war archers barring the road. The flurry of arrows that rained into the Valdemaran ranks confirmed that battlefield diplomacy was not an option. The closing assault that followed left no doubts about the resolve, or skill, of the mercenaries.

Hallock had gotten the retreat call from his captain and had been shouting out fallback orders to his Third when the first arrow from the initial volley had creased him across the forehead. That was the memory of the falling arrow.

A second arrow had pierced his left side between the belly muscles and his intestines. His Third had pulled him up onto his horse and led the rest of the company back toward Haven. The Sixteenth’s relaying retreat was only barely quicker than the mercenaries chose to disrupt. As soon as a rout was apparent, the mercs held their attacks and went defensive in posture, finally pulling back to what their employers had evidently declared was their border. Mercifully for the Sixteenth, the mercs sent no clean-up units to finish off stragglers. Hallock and the other wounded were relegated to travois and stretchers for the remainder of the fallback. Individual Guard units had been scattered into the countryside and regrouped on the roadside south of the attack, some of them riding candlemarks to get there. Even now, they continued to straggle in to this improvised camp around a riverside mill town.

The clerk rubbed his eyes and begged off for some sleep. The patter of raindrops had increased in frequency, and it was plain even to Hallock that he wanted to get to his rack before getting soaked. Hallock was clearer of thought, but hadn’t even realized his time perception was so badly altered by the juice he had been fed until he had been asked for dismissal three times. The Healer Birce guided the clerk out once Hallock had grunted an assent, then returned to answer a few questions before another draught. The explanations didn’t make him feel any better.

“Healer Birce, isn’t it? Mmm. Let me guess. Gut wound. Bleeder.”

Birce nodded gently. “Yes, sir. You don’t seem like the kind of patient who wants me to make it sound any better than it is.”

“I’m a veteran, son. I know what a yellow ribbon is in Healer code. What’s keeping me from being fixed?”

Birce rubbed his right hand, hard, and picked at his dark-stained nail beds. He paid a great deal of attention to his hands while finding adequate words. “It isn’t that I am not skilled, sir. It’s that I’m not Gifted, nor is anyone here. You’ve just had some wounds of a type that we don’t have the ability to cure under the very best of circumstances. You were hit when you were already down, by another arrow, after the first one had creased your forehead and unhorsed you. In your belly, a couple of fingers’ width below your stomach. It wasn’t incurable, then, I don’t think, because it was mostly in the belly muscle. But when you were dragged off the battlefield, the arrow was still pierced inside you. While you were carried, the serrations of the war point sawed away until . . . well . . . things degraded pretty quickly.”

Birce held his hands apart, letting his explanation end there. “I’m an herb-and-knife Healer. I’ve sent word with the dispatch rider that a magical Healer is needed, someone with a Gift or spell or maybe some kind of obscure knowledge I just don’t have. But whether Haven responds with anyone, or quickly enough, I cannot say.” He folded his hands, wringing them twice before letting them be still. “In the meantime, I have drugs that can keep your pain down, your mind in the here-and-now, and keep you asleep when it’s best for you.”

As optimistic as the Healer tried to be, Hallock knew better than to think he had much of a chance of seeing Haven again. Or Genni. Or even too many more sunrises.

It was one of the worst thoughts to have as the last one before a helpless sleep. So he tried to chase it away with his next words to the Healer.

Hallock had much more to return to than just Haven, a point he tried to stress to Birce as he drank his medicine. When Birce turned his back to put the cup away, Hallock mustered up his voice of command. Midway through, he was all too aware of how it weakened and cracked.

“Healer, listen to me. I have a wife. We’re going to have a family. I know you probably can’t get me well enough for active duty again. I can accept that.” Hallock paused for a breath, and there his stoic demeanor broke. “But at least keep me alive for her. At least keep me alive long enough to get back to Haven for Genni. She needs me.”

Birce pursed his lips so tightly they turned pale. He resumed picking at his nails and then exhaled gustily. “Sleep now,” was his answer. “I should know by the time you wake up how things will go. All right?”

Clearly Birce was not prepared to give him anything but blunt truth or silence. At least he was honest. There were worse things than honesty, especially on a battlefield, or the aftermath of a battle. Hallock couldn’t find fault with the Healer, although in some ways he wished he could. What he wanted was to find something, someone, to blame, to rail at, to storm at, and of course there wasn’t anyone.

It wasn’t all right, but that was how it was. The oil lamps faded, and Hallock was in oblivion by the time Birce had even left the tent. His dreams were confused, but full of regret. Strange that there was no fear. Only regret.

Hallock heard a commotion outside, but it was as if it was far distant, and heard through a tube of parchment. Peaceful rest was hopeless. His sleep was a storm of memories of rain, uniforms, sunlight, brown eyes, smiles, horsemanship classes, weapons drills, war, falling, Genni, the arrows, spinning trees, and Haven. He wanted to stay in the initial oblivion the Healer’s draught had put him in, and couldn’t, but the drugs he had been given wouldn’t let him be as awake as he wanted, either. Now some bastards outside were making more noise than a free beer festival full of cadets. Shouts and hoofbeats passed around his tent, followed by a group that must have been twice as many and the sound of wagon wheels.

The din was split by an inhuman and impossibly loud shriek, answered by expletives and sounds of breaking wood and bodies falling. He was shocked fully awake, sucking in a deep breath. He couldn’t sit up, due to the bindings and stitching of his belly wound, but he did manage to edge up on his elbows little by little, only making the tent spin mildly in his vision. He tried to see through the slight gap in the tent flaps.

Birce’s voice was raised in exasperation and anger, shouting as he passed outside the tent, “No! He cannot be moved to another tent, I strictly forbid it! You, come with me now . . .” and nothing more of that command was discernible to Hallock’s thrumming ears.

More lucidity helped him take control of his limbs. He had been warned not to try to use his belly muscles for anything at all, but it was much easier said than done. Funny how you never noticed the way you used some muscles until they were hurt, and then it seemed as if you used them for everything.

Because, well, that was the way the universe went. Some of the gods, at least, must have a perverse sense of humor.

He knew that kind of shriek—a piercing, raspy blast from a strained, capacious throat driven by huge lungs. He recognized it—from Haven. From the Collegium.

Hallock heard Birce’s voice calling for supplies and lamps, and then there was another bestial shriek that fell away into a rasping gurgle, then silence. A candlemark could have passed, or two, or half of one. It was impossible for Hallock to tell, but when the tent flaps were pulled back, he was still up on his elbows with his chin against his ribs. A throng of Guard regulars burst into the tent, and several of them stared at him for one surprised moment before dashing out, yelling for the Healer in charge. The ones remaining in the tent stammered apologies, apparently not realizing they had mud and fresh blood spattered across their uniforms, making them look as bad as the bedridden officer they stood before.

Devon pushed past them to get to Hallock and blurted, “Sir, there’s something here, it’s one of the—” then turned back to yell, “I’m asking him now!” to someone outside. “Sir, there’s—”

A minor Guard officer appeared at the tent entry to interrupt the Healer and jabbered something to Devon quicker than the Healer could follow. Surprisingly, Devon smacked the soldier with an open palm on the cheek, and screamed, “Pull yourself together! Healer’s orders!”

There were two heartbeats of absolute stunned silence from everyone except Devon, who just said, “Tell the Second what happened.” The soldier composed himself and explained more slowly, and with significantly less vigor.

“What I was told was, the patrol found merc outriders, an’ got spotted, an’ the mercs chased ’em down. An’ the patrol turned to make a stand, ’cause the mercs was faster. An’ when th’ mercs was closin’ in, this thing jus’ came screamin’ out o’the sky an’ tore inta th’mercs—killed’em, killed’em all! Th’ mercs kept stabbin’ an’ hackin’ at it an’ it just wouldn’t fall! An’ when th’ patrol came out from hidin’, there was heads bit off, an’ arms an’ legs strewn ’round by th’ bodies an’ all! An’ the thing spoke—spoke Valdemaran! Said it was an ally to the Crown an’ then keeled over. Been delirious th’ whole way—they jus’ got it dragged back here on some farmer’s wagon.” He turned angry and jabbed a finger at Devon’s chest. “Look! It’s as may be that it’s some weird ally, but I jus’ saw the thing tear up the earth like a whirlwind an’ slash at people what was tryin’ ta help it. Yer Healer Birce wants ta fix it up, that’s his say, but I’m tellin’ ya! You put the thing where ya’ want but nowhere near me an’ my Company!”

Annoyed, Hallock raised his voice. “Healer! Attend now!”

Devon blinked, stopping with his mouth open in his reply to the regular, and turned toward Hallock.

“You have a gryphon.”