Of Bone and Thunder (53 page)

“Then?”

“Then I drill into the skull to remove the pieces of bone and allow the damaged humors to leak out. This will, hopefully, rebalance his mind and body and begin the healing process. If that works, I will then cover the hole with a piece of tin.”

Carny grew weak, his head fuzzy. He couldn't watch his friend be cut open. He turned and left the tent. This was all his fault.

He walked aimlessly with Knockers and the Bard in tow until he realized someone was blocking his path. He looked up and saw Ahmist.

“Is he still alive?”

“What?”

Ahmist held out his hand. It held a Dendro amulet. “It fell off him. I was hoping to give it back to him, and to pray for his soul.”

Carny looked at Ahmist. The constant smile of earlier was gone. His face was filthy, his eyes red-rimmed, and his aketon was in tatters.

“He's still alive, so maybe you could pray for his body,” Carny said.

Ahmist lowered his hand. “I can do both.”

Carny raised his arm toward Ahmist. Ahmist flinched, but Carny smiled and patted the soldier on the shoulder. “Thank you,” Carny said.

MASTER WITCH ELMITIA
Bogston washed her hands thoroughly in a small stone basin while she kept watch on the soldier. His wound was obvious and complicated. A chunk of rock had caved in his helm to a depth of three-quarters of an inch on the left side in an area behind the temple and above the ear. Her first task was to remove the helm without causing any more damage. The soldier muttered a couple of times, so his humors were not yet depleted beyond the point of no return.

Dragonsmith Pagath entered the tent with a small bundle wrapped in leather. Elmitia nodded at him and motioned him toward the basin. When he walked over and she saw his hands, she shook her head. “I don't think we could get your paws clean if we had a week.”

Pagath looked down at his hands. “Aye, the dirt does get ground in. But it's a good thing. Keeps the bad humors out.”

The master witch let that go. She'd have a talk with him about hygiene another day.

“Well, proceed, but do not, under any circumstances, touch his head or any fluid that flows. Only the helm.”

Pagath nodded. “Not the first one of these I've done you know,” he said, following her as she walked over to the wooden table that was set up.

“Dragon husbandry is a whole other cauldron of newts. Now,” she said, pausing as Pagath climbed up onto a stool by the table, “here's our dilemma. His helm is pressed tight against his skull. You can see the concave nature of the dent. Judging by the sign of blood and depth of the dent it's obvious there has been significant crush force to the bone.”

Pagath looked at her. “So the poor bugger got hit in the head with a rock then?”

Elmitia massaged the bridge of her nose. “Yes. But we can't treat his wound until we remove his helm.”

A witch draped a white cloth around Pagath's long beard and tied it behind his head. He leaned forward and looked at the helm. He studied it from several angles, nodding and muttering as he did.

“Well?” she asked.

“Same sort of thing happens with scales. Even had a chain get smashed into a rag's skull once. One of the links was right in there. Nasty business, that. It lived,” he said, looking up from the helm. “Never flew straight again, mind you, always pulled to port, the daft bastard, but it lived.”

“We don't need him to fly,” Elmitia said. “Living would be more than enough.”

Pagath nodded. “Right. So, I need you and you to hold his helm steady there and there,” he said, pointing at two of the witches and then at the helm.

“And how may I assist?” Elmitia asked.

Pagath held out his filthy left hand and bent over the soldier. “You can start by handing me my talon shears. After that, look for the number-three chisel.”

THE SOLDIERS OF
Red Shield sat outside their barracks watching the sunrise. The smell of smoke hung thick in the valley and gave the dawn a faded look. Sparkers, two at a time, launched into the air. Their takeoff took them over the shield at barely two hundred yards.

Carny sat with his back against the mud-brick wall of the barracks and looked up as the first pair flew overhead. Their belly-armor plates were coated in dust and muck and even pieces of jungle. Several had scorch marks. Carny wondered if it hurt them.

A second and then a third pair launched. They began flying slow circuits up and down the valley. Carny watched them, waiting to see the telltale red glow as their sides heated up in preparation to fire, but they remained a dull gray.

“Slyts must have had enough for now,” Longbowman Mothrin said.

Carny grunted and went back to studying the dirt in the V-shaped space between his legs. He drew furiously with his fingers, then wiped the drawings out and started over.

The Bard fiddled with his broken psaltery, a few out-of-tune chords sounding now and then as he tried to make repairs. Knockers whittled away at a new pipe, a pile of wood shavings between his boots. Wraith paced. He would stop suddenly and look out to the valley, then, after a few flicks, start pacing again.

Carny sifted the dirt between his fingers. He imagined Big Hog on his farm out plowing the fields, his beefy wife in a kitchen with a litter of kids about her. He threw the dirt down and brushed his hands on his trousers. He picked up his crossbow and began working the firing lever and checking the string for any frays. His fingertips left gray smudges all over the weapon.

Wiz rolled and unrolled a small ball of string. His aketon was covered in dried blood, but no one said anything. Ahmist got up from sitting on the ground and closed his Book of LOKAM. “Morning service is being held by the stables,” he said. “I'm going . . . if anyone wants to join me.”

“Say a prayer for all of us,” Listowk said, ambling up to the group. Crossbowman Razchuts walked with him, his left arm in a sling. A few soldiers nodded at Razchuts and welcomed him back.

Carny looked up from staring at the dirt. “Any news?”

Listowk shook his head. “Nothing. Well”—he paused as he looked around at the soldiers—“they got the arrow out of Kistin's calf nice and clean. Looks like he'll keep the leg. Razzy here popped his shoulder bone falling down the berm. They gave him a couple of stiff drinks and popped it right back in place.”

Soldiers nodded. Another time they might have cracked jokes, but not this morning.

“Frogleg,” Listowk said, sighing as he did, “you already know about.”

Wiz stopped rolling his string. “I did everything I could.”

“That you did, lad, and we all know it.”

Carny looked over at Wiz. The dried blood on his aketon now seemed like a mark, the way they would tar and feather someone. It wasn't always fair, but the mark stayed.

“Couldn't they tell you anything about Big Hog?” Knockers asked, setting aside his pipe and knife.

Listowk sat down in the dirt and took off his helm. “I'll check again when I go back to the keep.”

Mention of the keep drew some grumbles.

“So what's the great man think about last night? More medals?” Wraith asked.

“They're calling it a success,” Listowk said. “Say we repulsed an FnC force three times our size.”

Carny smacked his crossbow. “A success? Fuck him.”

Listowk smiled and nodded slowly. “Commander Weel looks at the big picture. Iron Fist and all the fortresses are still here. The sparkers and the cats did their jobs and our friendly flock commander and his missus got the wounded to safety. Turns out after they dropped our boys off they made three more trips to bring in other wounded. So if anyone is getting a medal, those two deserve it.”

Wraith said nothing. He started pacing again.

“So what, we just sit here and wait?” Carny asked.

Listowk slowly got back to his feet. He took his time to stretch and brush the dust from his trousers. He examined the bits of vegetation that still clung to his helm before putting it back on his head. “Weel wants to know how many slyts we killed.”

Carny studied Listowk's face, trying to get a read on him. “Why?”

“It's a way to show the people back in the Kingdom that we're winning,” Listowk said. “The FnCs aren't inclined to stand and fight, so whenever they do it's an event. It ain't like the old days when two armies took to the field of battle and whoever remained was the victor. It's messier now, and that means it's harder to figure out who's winning and who's losing. You've seen the criers that are over here now. They're supposed to chronicle what happens and then tell the people back home.”

“So how do we do it?” Knockers asked.

“We count them.”

Carny stood up, his crossbow clenched in his left hand. “He wants us to go back out there and count the bodies? And what about our dead? Does he want a count of those, too?”

Listowk looked around at the shield. His shoulders drooped and his voice was soft with weariness. “War isn't pretty, my boys. Most of it is awful. A couple of the sparker crews have offered to help. They'll take a couple of us back out.”

“There's no room,” Carny said.

“They're having some kind of trouble with their crystals, so the thaums won't be going. That means there's an open slot on each rag. I'm going to ride on one, so all I need is a volunteer for the other.”

“I'll pass,” Wraith said.

A few heads turned to look at Wraith, Carny included. The soldier volunteered for everything, especially when it was dangerous.

“I'll go,” Carny said.

“If you both go, who's in charge?” Ahmy asked. “We need a new LC . . . don't we?”

Carny looked at Listowk. Listowk shrugged his shoulders and looked back.
He's not going to make this easy.

“I'll LC,” Carny said, tensing for the expected protest. None came.

Listowk nodded. “That's settled then. Carny, as you're LC, you stay back. Ahmy's right, we both can't be out there. So who—”

“I'll go,” Knockers said. “I can't write, but I can count well enough.”

“Done and done,” Listowk said. “Carny, get these boys some food, then put them to bed. Knockers, follow me.”

Carny tried to understand what he'd just done. Was it guilt over Big Hog? Maybe, but he couldn't worry about that now. Faces were turned to him, waiting.

“Anyone going to morning service with Ahmy, go now,” Carny said. “When it's over, get back here and get some sleep. The rest of you, get inside and clean your weapons. I'll go get some food and bring it back. Questions?”

“I'm going to the infirmary to check on Big Hog,” Wiz said.

“Help me get the food, then we'll both go over and check,” Carny said.

Wiz nodded.

Carny looked around at the shield. “Barracks, weapons, food, sleep. Go.”

They started moving. Carny turned, slinging his crossbow over his left shoulder as he did. “C'mon, Wiz, let's see what kind of slop they have in this place.”

“AND HOW'S OUR INVALID
this morning? Any better?” Rickets asked, his voice growing louder as he walked into the tent Jawn had all to himself. It was small consolation for losing his sight, but Rickets had pulled some strings and gotten Jawn out of the large ward filled with sick and wounded soldiers.

“I thought you left,” Jawn said, reaching out with his hands to find the jug of water by his cot. His fingers brushed the jug and he grabbed it. He drank straight from the jug. “Want some?”

“Thanks, no,” Rickets said. There was the sound of boots on dried fronds, then the cot shook as Rickets sat down. A hand touched Jawn's shoulder. “You done feeling sorry for yourself yet?”

Jawn swung the jug at Rickets's head, or where he thought it was. He hit nothing, and the jug sailed out of his hand and hit the side of the tent.

“Fuck you,” Jawn said, throwing himself onto his back on his cot. “If you're just here to torment me you've succeeded.”

“We still have our mission,” Rickets said. He didn't sound angry.

Jawn laughed. “You do. I'm a blind cripple.” War wasn't supposed to be like this. You either came home a hero, or you came home a dead hero. Jawn had left no room for anything in between.

“The army thought so,” Rickets said. “They were all set to invalid you back to the Kingdom. You'd be released from the service and free to pursue whatever course you like.”

Jawn heard the hitch, the subtle, telling use of the past tense that told him that Rickets was never to be taken at face value, even when you couldn't see his face.

“And what do they think now?”

The cot creaked as Rickets got up. “Now, well now they think it's time you got off your ass, off this pox of an island, and back to work.”

“Why in the world would they now think all that?” Jawn asked.

Rickets cleared his throat. “Because I told them. I got the papers for you to be released from service, but I sent them back. Told them there was still some use to be had of you. They agreed. The Cow and Country Commission rides again.”

With nothing to throw, Jawn shot out of his cot and lunged for the sound of Rickets's voice. This time, he connected, his left fist catching the crowny on the shoulder. The two men went down and rolled through the tent and onto the sand. Jawn punched and flailed.

“You fuck! You bastard! Why?!”

Rickets didn't punch back. No matter how hard Jawn hit, Rickets deflected his blows but never returned a punch. Finally, Jawn gave up and curled into a ball, sobbing.

“Fuck you, Rickets. Fuck you.”

There was a long silence. Jawn had started to wonder if Rickets had left when the man spoke.

“I'm not wrong about you, Jawn Rathim. I wasn't when we first met, and I'm not now. I get being blind is a terrible fate, but unlike the men in those wards, you still have hope. You didn't get an arrow in the stomach or catch a disease that's slowly burning you up. You lost your sight, maybe not even forever, but even if it is . . . you're still alive.”