Risa smiled. “Poor Rei-ki wouldn’t get any gren cakes there, would he?”
Reji swooped him up and tickled him. “And how would you know that, Risa-ki? For all you know, the gren nuts are even
better
there, and they have nothing better to do than to make cakes and sweets all day long. Maybe the spirits will take
you
too, to make you find the nuts for them, huh?” He set Risa down, and the child immediately ran ahead of them, Reji pretending to chase, as if his long legs were somehow no match for the stubby ones of a child.
Kei shook his head fondly. “Such energy,” he said, wiping his forehead as if merely watching Reji made him sweat.
“I know,” Banji said with a resigned sigh. “I get tired just thinking about him.”
They continued to walk along towards the far edge of the waterhole, where the gren bushes grew in scattered clumps, but as they did, Kei noticed Banji had something on his wrist, a dark circlet poking out from under his shirt sleeve. He caught his friend’s hand, and grinned as he realised what it was. “And who’s become your sweetheart in arms and heart, Banji-ki?” he asked slyly, touching the hair bracelet.
“None of your business,” Banji said, tugging his arm away.
“Oh, Banji,” Kei said in a faked hurt tone. This was a perfect topic for teasing. “You can tell me, I’m your best friend.”
“Not on your life. And I would appreciate you not bringing this up in front of Meis or anyone else,” Banji said stiffly.
“You’re really worried?” Kei tugged his friend to a halt. “If you’re pledged, this would be good news for everyone.”
“I’m not damn well pledged! It’s a hair bracelet, nothing more. My father’s only been dead three months. It’s tasteless to talk of more.”
“Oh, urs piss. Ban would tell you that too. Nothing would give him greater joy than if you found someone to love you.”
“Yes, well, love is another thing altogether,” Banji muttered, walking on. The emotions Kei felt from his friend puzzled him. There was irritation, and sadness, and...confusion. Was this girl playing with Banji’s affections?
“Maybe I should speak to her, find out if she’s serious” He squinted at his friend’s face, suddenly an inch from his own. He couldn’t move back because Banji had taken his shirt in a death grip. “Oy, oy, no need to get rough!”
“I don’t want you speaking to anyone, damn it!” Banji shook him a little and let him go. “Just let things move as they will, and if and when I want to tell you about it, I will. Until then, I’ll thank you not to harass me over it.”
Kei held his hands up in surrender. Banji could take things so seriously at times. “As you wish. Just don’t get your heart broken, or the girl pregnant, until you’re sure, all right?” Banji grunted and walked on. “I hope she’s pretty, though.”
“Kei, shut up.”
“But—”
“Shut up or I’ll stuff a fistful of gren nuts where they’ll do the most good in shutting you up.”
“Er. All right.”
The army marched on Darbin village shortly after dawn, Jozo and Arman at its head in full regalia, the better to awe and impress the barbarians. The noise of the trumpets and drums was enough to raise the dead, and it brought the villagers out in seconds. They were early risers in this part of world, for the grim-faced adults were all fully dressed. The men carried work axes and forks, but it was only for show as it had been in the previous two villages, and there was no actual resistance. Arman indicated to his lieutenant to ride forward, and read out the terms of their surrender. He paid no attention to his officer, instead scanning the assembled people, assessing their reactions, and wondering who would be selected as hostages. They had allowed the villagers to select their own up to now, reserving the right to replace any that were not suitable. There wasn’t a vast choice here—there were few men and women in their prime, mostly children and middle aged folk. A village in trouble, dying on its feet. Prij did it a favour in taking charge of it.
The lieutenant had finished his announcement, and now demanded the clan head to step forward. Interesting—a woman. He hadn’t known the Darshianese had female clan heads. Arman had just opened his mouth to comment on the fact to Jozo when he heard a curious whistling noise, and then an enormous crack of an explosion behind him. Immediately, there was chaos, dust and smoke rising and billowing everywhere, choking and making eyes water, the urs beasts rearing and screaming their terror, people scattering in all directions.
“Hold the line, hold the damn line!” Arman yelled, pulling hard on the reins and trying to keep his seat on his bucking mount, before gaining control and plunging to the front of the turmoil. “Staff! Hold them under control! Lieutenant, what the hells just happened!”
Jozo was already leading the rounding up of the scattering villagers, and tightening the circle around the hamlet. Arman scanned desperately to see where and what had been hit. “Lieutenant, report, damn it!”
“A bomb, general. I think it’s the supply train.”
Loke
. Arman yanked on the reins, whipped his mount into a gallop and charged through the ranks, men scattering from his path. Ahead, lay carnage. Dead or injured beasts, men crushed beneath them. Already others were trying to pull them free, and to capture the animals which had panicked. Arman searched desperately. “Loke! Has anyone seen Loke!”
He dismounted and ran to the centre of the destruction. “Loke! Has anyone seen my page?”
“Sei Arman! Over here!”
He wheeled and ran to the man who’d called him. Loke was half trapped under a dead urs beast.
“Get him out! Get this thing off him!”
Arman leant his bulk and strength to the task of rolling the enormous corpse off Loke’s legs, and the second he was free, Arman knelt beside him, ripping off his helmet and setting it beside him. Loke’s face was white and one hand clawed at an injury in his side. Blood seeped through his fingers. “Get me a medic, now!”
Arman was aware of activity in response to his words, but all he could see was Loke’s face. “Loke, speak to me. Open your eyes, lad.” He cupped Loke’s chin. “Loke, it’s Arman.”
Loke’s eyes were squeezed shut in obvious pain, but he forced them open, and tried to smile. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “Arman,” he whispered. “Hurts....”
“We’ll soon have you fixed. Where in six hells is that cursed medic!” he bellowed.
A man pushed through the watching soldiers. “Here, Sei Arman. Let me look at him.”
Arman sat back, gnawing worry eating at his insides, as Loke was prodded and questioned, and the injury to his side revealed. A bandage was pressed against it, then the medic stood. “We need to get him out of the sun, onto a pallet.”
“Erect my tent,” Arman said to the soldiers around him. “Do whatever he needs.” Five of them immediately left to carry out his orders. “Can you heal him? Is it serious?”
The medic indicated he should move away a little, out of earshot. “Sei Arman, I’m sorry...but the injury is grave.”
“Yes, I can damn well see that—can you heal him?”
“No, I cannot. I can make him comfortable, but the wound is mortal.”
“No!” Arman gripped the man by the shoulders and shook him. “No! Do something, stop the bleeding! I won’t accept it!”
“I’m sorry, “ the medic said calmly. “It is as the gods will it, Sei.”
Arman gave the man a hard look. “You’ll do what you can to save him or I’ll cut your throat.”
“Sei, the boy’s guts are pierced. It might take a few hours, or a day, but there is nothing I can do. I swear by Lord Niko.”
Arman swore and pushed him away, stalking back to where Loke lay. He knelt beside him, reaching for his hand, and brushing his long fringe off his forehead. “Arman?” Loke whispered. Arman leaned forward to hear him better. “Are you angry?”
“Not at you, my friend. I want to move you out of the sun. Can you bear it? I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“Hurts, Arman. I...I’ll try.”
“That’s my boy,” Arman murmured gently. He checked where else Loke was hurt—he had a broken leg by the look of it. He took his knife and offered the handle to Loke. “Bite down. I’ll be as careful as I can.”
Loke nodded and accepted the wooden handle, but his muffled scream as Arman gathered him into his arms was still piteous, pain tears running down his face. Arman moved as fast as he could, yelling at his men to get out of his damn way as he headed towards where his tent already stood. His pallet had been unrolled, although nothing else was set up. He laid Loke down and called for cloths and water so he could wipe Loke’s face. He eased the knife out of Loke’s mouth. There were teeth marks in the hardwood. “Brave lad. It’ll be all right.”
Loke couldn’t speak, his mouth drawn down in tight agony. Arman twisted around and saw the medic standing there. “Can’t you do anything for his pain?”
“He could take some wine, Sei, although with the stomach wound, it might make it worse. General, there are other wounded men I can help. I must attend to them.”
Arman wanted to scream at him that nothing was more important than saving Loke, but the soldier in him recognised the validity of the point. “Go, do what you can, and return as soon as you can. Send someone in to assist me.”
The medic bowed, retreating out of the tent. Arman stripped off the rest of his armour, leaving it where it fell, and resumed his place at Loke’s side. Shortly after, a soldier came bearing a bowl, and a towel which Arman dipped into the water and then wiped over Loke’s sweaty face. “Bring me some wine,” he ordered. “And find out who threw that bomb and have them kept at my pleasure.”
“Yes, Sei general.”
The soldier left. Arman continued to wipe Loke’s face, until a little reason came back into his eyes and he relaxed a little. Loke’s hand reached for him, so Arman caught it and held it gently. “There, better?”
“Yes.” Barely more than a breath. “Am I dying?”
“No, you’re not. Not if I can help it. Just rest. Let me look after you for a change.”
“I...I stayed at the rear.” Each word was gasped out, and sweat broke out on Loke’s brow. Arman wiped it away. “Your orders.”
“Yes, you obeyed me. It’s my fault. I’m sorry.”
Loke’s grip on his finger briefly tightened. “Not...your fault. Arman...please...my mother...a letter.”
“You don’t need to write her a damn letter,” Arman said gruffly. “You’ll see her soon enough.”
But Loke was determined, tugging on his hand. “Please...write for me.”
“No, damn it!”
“Please.” Loke’s hand brushed his cheek. “You’re weeping.”
“No, I’m...you’re not going to die!”
“But if I do...Arman, please....” He coughed a little and his mouth clenched tight in pain. “I beg you.”
Arman wanted to howl with grief. Instead, he found his pack, dumped in the corner of the tent, and pulled out his diary and the inkset. “What do you want to say?”
Eyes awash with tears, Loke managed to smile in thanks, and then dictated a few simple lines of love and devotion to his mother. Arman held the book so his friend could shakily sign his name with the quill, and then Arman blotted it carefully before storing the book back in his pack. “You can give it to her yourself in a few weeks.”
“Of course.” His eyes closed as a spasm of pain hit him. “I’m cold.”
Arman yelled for blankets to be brought, and more bandages as the one at Loke’s side was soaked. If they could keep the bleeding under control, surely a strong, healthy boy like Loke could defeat this? The medic hadn’t even bothered to set his leg. The blankets were brought, as were the bandages and finally the wine. Arman replaced the bandage over his belly, and covered him with two blankets even though the tent was stifling hot. He tried to help the boy drink some wine, but Loke refused. “Feel sick. Sorry.”
“Never mind, lad, it doesn’t matter.” The only thing Loke wanted was for Arman to hold his hand, and while he wanted that, Arman would not move from his side.
Outside, he heard shouting, and frantic activity. He should feel guilty for abandoning his post. He would apologise to Jozo later. But while his dearest friend lay injured, Arman could not find the will to leave him.
Reports came in, delivered with an obvious respect for what was happening in Arman’s tent. Five soldiers killed, three injured, one seriously. The person or persons who threw the bomb had not been discovered, but the villagers had been rounded up and were all under guard. Two urs beasts were dead, but the village had enough to replace them.
Arman listened to it all, not really caring. All he could hear was the harsh sound of Loke’s breathing, and his small choked whimpers, trying to hide the extent of his pain from his master. To look at the boy, you would never suspect him of such strength. A slight, fair creature, with eyes which drew you in with their sorrow when he was sad, and which lit up his face when he smiled. There was good breeding in Loke, and an iron will. Arman prayed hard to Lord Niko he would spare his friend.
The day wore on, the heat got worse. So did Loke, who rambled a little, having a mumbled, mostly incoherent conversation half with Arman, half with his dead father. Arman did his best to follow him, wiping his forehead, and despairing at the cold feel of it. He changed the dressing again—the bleeding was a little abated, but not much. Loke still refused wine, but allowed Arman to trickle a little water into his mouth. It only made him cough and choke, so Arman stopped and helped Loke sit a little until he could breathe.