The arrows had gone clean through her. That was good, everyone said, and she'd grinned up at them from the sacking by the door. Then she took fever and they'd all said less, in the same bright voices that they used on dogs. No soldier could blame them. She's one more thing to carry, this way. It's right—it's good—that they've left her behind.
Tilses, Cerys had murmured, stroking the sweaty tangle of her hair. Cerys wasn't one to flinch. We're going, now. The curse is broken. The road clear. Rest, Rider, and follow when you're well. She must have thought Tilses asleep, then, for she spoke in a low, brisk voice to someone else: How long?
Tilses can't remember what the Harper healer had said. Twice she stirs awake to the sounds of a sick-camp: harsh laughter, cries of pain. The third time she sees without surprise that Zevlor is sitting beside her, not dead, mending his only shirt.
She tries weakly to hate him. All she can muster is what she’d felt when he’d made her his shield-bearer, when he’d turned in the charge at Skuldask to pull her onto his horse. She could count his ribs if most of them weren’t swathed in strips of rag. She watches him fumble with the needle—the tremor’s gotten worse—until he glances at her, then knocks over a ewer with his tail.
“Tilly,” he gasps, reaching for her.
It’s important that she lift her head. She can’t. He’ll do it. She tries to ask him, then turns her cheek into the sacking and throws up.
“Oh, Tilly—” Hastily, Zevlor wipes her crusted face with the shirt. The needle’s still in it. He curses himself in a thick voice, plucks it, tosses it aside; maybe needles are easy to come by, wherever he’s been. “Hush, now. Hush.”
The fever’s already burned her mouth dry. In Avernus they’d eaten their horses. Zevlor had given the order without inflection and gone to his charger, old fire-breathing Vassago, whom he’d always rubbed down himself: murmuring praise, teasing and tugging the black mane, with the knife in his other hand.
They could have chosen the first horse by lot. Tilses shuts her eyes. Behind them an ache drums hooves of hot iron across her skull. “Sir?”
“I’m—” Zevlor makes a sick, stifled noise. He feels her brow, thumbs the corner of her mouth. Not by lot could they have chosen their commander. “Here. Yes. I’m here.”
Tilses turns her face into his hand. He makes the noise again. They did that to him, his lieutenant thinks, dazed, as he tries to weep in silence. They cooked him over hellfires. They threw away the bones.
* * *
"No," says Quartermaster Talli. "Look at yourselves."
"A tennight's rations. For two."
Talli stares them down: two more battered campaigners, the young woman half-conscious and the old man holding her up, who stare back at her with the obtuseness of seasoned soldiers at attention. They're in no state to go. They're going anyway, she realizes—empty-handed, if she presses the point. Damned if she'll send them to their deaths without something to chew.
"Riders," she says, curt, and gestures to her aide. They can spare a spear or two from Thorm's kist, and flour from his store. "You've come a long way. Not much farther, now."
The fever-gaunt woman salutes. Her companion hefts a proffered poleaxe, testing its weight—graceful enough with the thing, given all the bruises. Something flickers in his eyes, then goes out.
"No," he agrees. The spearhead wobbles grimly, but stays up. "Not much."
The arrows had gone clean through her. That was good, everyone said, and she'd grinned up at them from the sacking by the door. Then she took fever and they'd all said less, in the same bright voices that they used on dogs. No soldier could blame them. She's one more thing to carry, this way. It's right—it's good—that they've left her behind.
Tilses, Cerys had murmured, stroking the sweaty tangle of her hair. Cerys wasn't one to flinch. We're going, now. The curse is broken. The road clear. Rest, Rider, and follow when you're well. She must have thought Tilses asleep, then, for she spoke in a low, brisk voice to someone else: How long?
Tilses can't remember what the Harper healer had said. Twice she stirs awake to the sounds of a sick-camp: harsh laughter, cries of pain. The third time she sees without surprise that Zevlor is sitting beside her, not dead, mending his only shirt.
She tries weakly to hate him. All she can muster is what she’d felt when he’d made her his shield-bearer, when he’d turned in the charge at Skuldask to pull her onto his horse. She could count his ribs if most of them weren’t swathed in strips of rag. She watches him fumble with the needle—the tremor’s gotten worse—until he glances at her, then knocks over a ewer with his tail.
“Tilly,” he gasps, reaching for her.
It’s important that she lift her head. She can’t. He’ll do it. She tries to ask him, then turns her cheek into the sacking and throws up.
“Oh, Tilly—” Hastily, Zevlor wipes her crusted face with the shirt. The needle’s still in it. He curses himself in a thick voice, plucks it, tosses it aside; maybe needles are easy to come by, wherever he’s been. “Hush, now. Hush.”
The fever’s already burned her mouth dry. In Avernus they’d eaten their horses. Zevlor had given the order without inflection and gone to his charger, old fire-breathing Vassago, whom he’d always rubbed down himself: murmuring praise, teasing and tugging the black mane, with the knife in his other hand.
They could have chosen the first horse by lot. Tilses shuts her eyes. Behind them an ache drums hooves of hot iron across her skull. “Sir?”
“I’m—” Zevlor makes a sick, stifled noise. He feels her brow, thumbs the corner of her mouth. Not by lot could they have chosen their commander. “Here. Yes. I’m here.”
Tilses turns her face into his hand. He makes the noise again. They did that to him, his lieutenant thinks, dazed, as he tries to weep in silence. They cooked him over hellfires. They threw away the bones.
* * *
"No," says Quartermaster Talli. "Look at yourselves."
"A tennight's rations. For two."
Talli stares them down: two more battered campaigners, the young woman half-conscious and the old man holding her up, who stare back at her with the obtuseness of seasoned soldiers at attention. They're in no state to go. They're going anyway, she realizes—empty-handed, if she presses the point. Damned if she'll send them to their deaths without something to chew.
"Riders," she says, curt, and gestures to her aide. They can spare a spear or two from Thorm's kist, and flour from his store. "You've come a long way. Not much farther, now."
The fever-gaunt woman salutes. Her companion hefts a proffered poleaxe, testing its weight—graceful enough with the thing, given all the bruises. Something flickers in his eyes, then goes out.
"No," he agrees. The spearhead wobbles grimly, but stays up. "Not much."
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