At first I could not move, overwhelmed by the utter chaos, the hopelessness, the huge scale of the suffering and brutality. Then I forced myself to go into it, though I shook and wept, and could hardly see for the smoke and flying dust. I found an Igaal youth still alive, clutching an arrow in his chest; I dragged him between the horses and the fighting men and the dead and dying, over to the safety of the illusion of trees by the healing tent. Then I ran back. There was an old woman, screaming, crawling, blinded by blood from a head wound. I caught her under the armpits, dragged her, too, through the turmoil to the sheltering tent. Again and again I went out onto the plain, saved another youth, a woman, a Navoran soldier, an Igaal warrior. I do not know where I got the strength; I was not even aware of myself. Nothing seemed real. The agony all around, the confusion and terror, were like a dream through which I moved automatically, driven only by the desire to save as many as I could. There was no time to stop pain, or staunch bleeding; only time to drag the wounded out of the way of the horses and swords, to safety.
Some people, like me, were still on their feet; they ran, were swept up and taken. Then it seemed that only wounded and dead were left; everyone else was carried off. There were dead horses and people everywhere. And still the soldiers came, hundreds and hundreds of them, pouring in from the gorge, their swords and deadly crossbows flashing in the sun. So many there were, our valley could hardly contain them. Half blinded by dust, I carried on, discovered, as I dragged away a wounded youth, that there was red mud in his hair, and his clothes were painted. A Hena warrior? Bewildered, feeling more and more that this was a terrible dream, I left the Hena man by the healing tent and went back. It must only have been Sheel Chandra’s protection that prevented me from being trampled, or cut down by a Navoran sword; I know that sometimes it seemed that flying hooves missed me by the width of a human hand, and there were times when swords swung so close to my head, I marveled that I was not killed. In the end even fear left me, and I went on dragging wounded from the battlefield, soldiers and warriors alike. At one point I stood up by the healing tent and saw how many I had saved so far: two long lines of them, lying bleeding, groaning, lifting their hands in pleading to me. Some were already dead. The illusion of trees had vanished, my powers too scattered now to sustain it. One more time, I thought, I would go back, then I would leave the battlefield altogether, and remake the shield, and begin the healings.
The battle had moved closer. They were fighting on the edge of the lake, upon the fallen tents, across the scattered cooking fires, over the bodies of the dead. The screams and battle cries and the clashing of blades filled the valley. Smoke rolled across the water like mist; underneath, the lake looked weirdly passive, still. All else was bedlam.
Suddenly I looked up to see a soldier riding toward me. Through the smoke I could see his eyes, blue like mine. He was laughing. His sword was not drawn; he was here now not to kill but to take a prisoner. Then he was upon me, hooves thundering. I threw myself aside, felt the wind of his passing, and the shake of earth beneath the hooves. I scrambled up, amazed that I was still alive, could still stand. Hardly knowing what I was doing, I took my little food knife from its place at my belt. He wheeled about, came at me again. Again the thunder of those mighty hooves, the dust and wind, and then his arm swinging down to take me. I slashed out with my knife, missed, and somehow he got my arm and hauled me up onto the horse in front of him. I struggled, my legs dangling under the horse; I heard screams—mine, I think—then I was up and was lying facedown across the saddle, his hand crushing down on the back of my neck. I saw earth flashing past, bodies, blood, a horse fallen. My knife was still in my hand, and I slashed backward, blindly, awkwardly. I must have got the man’s thigh, for he gave an awful yell and loosened his hold on me. Again and again I slashed at him, felt blood gush warm over my hand. The horse reared, screaming, and I fell. I hit the ground and rolled away. I heard the hooves again, tried to get to my feet, to run, but pain shot through my right foot. I staggered, fell. He was coming back again, a terrible look on his face. On my knees I waited, saying a prayer to the All-father, my fingers closed about the amulet from Sheel Chandra. The soldier slowed the horse, dismounted just in front of me. I could smell the sweat on him, the blood. Limping, he came a step nearer and drew his sword. I heard the sound of it, smooth and full of death. He put the point just beneath my chin.
Dimly, I was aware of another soldier coming from the side, almost from behind me, riding hard, not holding the reins but riding while he raised his bow. But he was not aiming at me. Incredibly, he was aiming at the soldier with the sword. He released the arrow. It hit the soldier in front of me, going right through his chest. Blood sprayed over me. He fell slowly, to his knees first, his sword hanging loose in his hand. I saw the look of shock on his face, when he saw who shot him; then he fell face forward, his head almost against my knees, and lay still.
I stared down at him, numb. When I looked up again, my rescuer was gone. Had I imagined him? As in a dream I looked across the fallen, burning tents, the chaos, the destruction. So many soldiers. And soldiers killing, not the Igaal, but other soldiers. And there were Hena warriors, their strange mud-caked hair smooth and gleaming through the dust, fighting alongside the Igaal warriors who were still standing. It was madness. Everything was madness. I got up and staggered away, fell across a dead Igaal youth, and got up again, furious at the pain in my foot. It lamed me enough to get me killed. I noticed then that the center of the battle had moved, the fight changed. It was all Navoran soldiers fighting now, out on the flat bit of ground between our tents and the gorge. Every soldier with a captive was cut down, or hauled off his horse in close combat. Taken Igaal tumbled from their captors’ horses, ran for their lives, unnoticed by the soldiers too busy fighting other soldiers. Many of the soldiers were fleeing, dust billowing out of the gorge as they left. Navoran horns were blaring. Above the battleground the buzzards cruised, waiting. Beside me, a woman stood sighing and praying. Her shoulder was bleeding. Others gathered beside us, men as well, and soon there was a large crowd of us, bloodied and hurt and some moaning in pain, or sobbing. Most of us were silent, staring through the drifting smoke, watching in disbelief as Navoran soldiers fought their own.
I wanted to go to the healing tent, to begin the huge task that lay ahead of me there, but I could not walk on my hurt foot. So I stayed where I was, leaning a little on a man next to me. After a time we realized that the fighting had stopped. Yet hundreds of Navoran soldiers remained. One of them shouted an order, and there was silence, but for the moaning of the wounded and the dying still out there. All around the edge of the battlefield huddled the captives who had been rescued, supporting one another. They must have been as astonished and bewildered as we were. The soldiers stayed there, still on their horses, on that patch of ground in front of the gorge, but for one.
One man came to us, riding slowly. His bronze breastplates gleamed in the sun; the plume on his helmet was red. Under his armor his uniform was blue-gray, and across his upper body, formed of two wide sashes tied diagonally, was a vivid blue cross. He must have left his sword behind; he seemed unarmed. Halfway to us he stopped and dismounted, and knelt beside a fallen Igaal warrior. The Igaal was still alive. Astoundingly, the soldier helped him up onto his own horse and brought him over to us. Very gently he helped him down, and two women rushed forward and led the Igaal man back among us. The rest of us stood silent, stunned, unsure.
The soldier took off his helmet and wiped his forearm across his sweating face. His hair was the color of corn.
“Can anyone here speak Navoran?” he called.
I tried to speak, but my mouth was too dry from dust and fear. So I said nothing but limped forward, slowly, until I came to him. I looked up, and shock went through me.
He was clean-shaven, boyish looking. Even through the sweat and grime, I saw the crooked zigzag scar on his chin. His green eyes danced, and he smiled.
“So, we meet again, Shinali woman,” he said.
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It was Embry.
23
For long moments I could not speak.
He dismounted and came closer on foot. “You do understand Navoran?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Will you please tell all these people that they are in no danger from us.”
I turned and faced the Igaal people, silent and bewildered behind me, and repeated his words. Then I said to him, “You fought your own people, to save us. Why?”
Sighing heavily, he nodded. “We are not part of the Navoran army. We were once, but not now. What happens to my city and my Empire, under the Emperor Jaganath, sickens me. And it sickens my men. We deserted, formed an army of our own, and we fight now against the forces of Jaganath. Our aim is to one day bring his reign to an end.” He turned, and his arm briefly took in the Hena warriors. “These fine warriors joined us four months ago,” he added. “We all fight for the same thing—freedom.”
That, too, I translated. When I looked back at the man Embry, he was staring at me strangely, as if he knew me, and not just from the river that other battle-day.
“I have three surgeons among my soldiers,” he said. “They’ll work with your Igaal healers, to save as many as we can of the wounded.”
“I’m the healer here,” I said. “I, and a woman called Chimaki.”
Again he looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “You remind me of another healer I knew, a long time ago. He was . . . Never mind, we’ll talk later. We have much to do. My men will help put up the tents again, those that are not too damaged. Is there somewhere we can put up a large tent for a hospital?”
I gestured toward the small healing tent. The rows of waiting wounded could be clearly seen, and many more still lay about where the battle had raged.
“You can put up a tent beside our small one,” I said. “There’s plenty of fresh water there, and it’s cool under the trees.”
And so it was that, when I mended and bound up the wounded, I worked beside three Navoran surgeons. While a large Navoran army tent was being erected for a hospital one of the Navoran surgeons bound my ankle for me, for it was only sprained. When that was done, I got the pouch of surgical instruments Salverion had given me and went to the hospital tent. Chimaki was there, supervising the women who would clean our instruments between healings, and bandage up the wounded when the surgeons and I had finished with them. I asked her to find what news she could of Ishtok and Ramakoda and others we loved. She was gone a long time, and an awful fear ran through me, though I felt that Ishtok was alive. I tried to put my fears aside and fixed my mind on the healing work before me.
Our healing-mats were in a semicircle around the tent, so we could face one another and talk if we wished. The Navoran surgeons worked standing up, makeshift tables made for them out of the largest wooden chests from the tents, covered over with clean mats. The surgeons had their own packs of Navoran instruments and were surprised when I produced the instruments Salverion had given me, and set them out on a mat on the floor, for that was the way I preferred to work. By the time we had washed our hands and threaded our needles, there was a long line of wounded waiting, beside those I had dragged here.
At first I had only the simple injuries to heal, for Embry’s soldiers carried in the hurt, and I think they presumed I was unskilled. Because the wounds I healed were simple, I did not use the skill of blocking nerves, for it would have taken vital time; I simply cleansed and sewed up, as the Navoran surgeons did. Sometimes they spoke to me, asking if I needed help with certain things, but they soon realized I was doing well enough. Soon after we began our work, a man was brought in who had two arrows in his chest, and an appalling belly wound. It was Chro, brother of Ramakoda and Ishtok. Screaming he was, and four soldiers were struggling to hold him down for the surgeon. Stopping what I was doing, I went over and asked if I might speak with Chro a moment, before they began with him. The surgeon working on him looked annoyed but nodded and stepped back. “Be quick,” he said.
I bent over Chro and placed my forehead on his, my fingers behind his head. He did not know it was me there; he struggled and fought, and they still had to hold him. It was hard to concentrate, for I was distracted by his howls for mercy, and the moans of those waiting, and the general noise all around, and most of all by my own fears for Ishtok; but I managed at last to find the way into Chro’s mind, then down into the deep nerve pathways. He slumped on the makeshift table, his eyes still open and aware, but his body relaxed and calm. Seeing me, he smiled faintly and his lips moved in thanks. I said a blessing-word on him and went back to my own place and picked up the needle again, for I was sewing up a sword cut.
I was aware, then, that they all were watching me—the three surgeons, and the soldiers who were there to hold Chro down, and the soldiers in the tent doorway who were waiting with the next four to be healed. One of the older surgeons said, “Where did you learn that skill, woman? I’ve only ever seen it done once, by a Citadel healer, before they all were murdered. Who taught you?”
“My mother,” I said, truthfully enough, and carried on.
After that they often asked me to stop the pain of those most badly wounded, before they worked on them.
Of all the days I had known, that day was the longest. I do not know how many wounds we mended, how many arrow wounds we packed with salving cloths, how many bones we set in splints. I do not know how many people helped us, who brought water for us to wash and drink, who put food into our mouths while we worked on, who cleaned up the injured a little before we saw them and bandaged them afterward, who brought clean binding cloths, and replaced the mats we worked on when they were soaked in blood. At some time, between healings, someone crouched beside me and put a cup of water into my hands. I looked up to see Ishtok, uninjured. For the first time all day, I smiled.
“It’s good to see your face,” he said, lightly touching my cheek. “The gods were surely with us this day. We have much to talk about, later. Thank you for what you did for Chro. The Navorans say you are a marvel.” As he took my empty cup the next wounded warrior was laid on the mat in front of me. I picked up a clean blade and forgot all but the work of healing.
The rest of the day was a blur, bloodied fighter after bloodied fighter brought to the mat in front of me. Some were Igaal men or Igaal women, some Navoran soldiers from both armies, though not many from Embry’s, and there were Hena warriors. Once a child was brought to me, who had fallen from the mountain path and broken his leg. And still the wounded came, one scarcely off the mat in front of me, before the next was laid there. Someone—I do not know who—took away the bloodstained instruments each time, and put down clean ones, Navoran instruments and Igaal knives all mixed up. I suspect they were only washed and not boiled, but it could not be helped. They tell me that sometime that day Embry came to watch me work, but I do not remember it.
At last I became aware of a voice calling, “Only nine more, and you’re done.”
And then—incredibly—the healing-mat was empty. I looked up. There were lamps around us, for it was evening, and two of the surgeons were leaning over their tables, their heads bent. One was lying on the ground, heedless of the blood and gore. He looked asleep.
Then one of the surgeons roused himself and came over to me and took my wrist in the Navoran handshake, a sign of respect between people. “It was an honor to work with you, Igaal girl,” he said.
I told him I was Shinali, and he shook his head and walked away. I heard him say to a companion, “I thought they were all Igaal in this camp. But there are Shinali, too. Perhaps this is the beginning of the Eagle’s rise.”
I was too tired to put him right.
For a long time after, I slept, though I had terrible dreams, and once I woke to feel Ishtok’s arms about me, and his lips against my ear, telling me to hush, that all was well. When I woke fully it was morning’s middle the next day, and I was alone in the tent. I went outside and found that our Igaal camp was now a place of makeshift shelters, for few tents had es
caped the burnings. Alongside the Igaal shelters were many rows of small brown tents belonging to Embry’s army, some of them painted with Hena signs. People had lit fires and were cooking food. Beyond the camp, back along the shore toward the gorge, Navoran soldiers were digging pits to bury their dead, and on the far lake shore the Hena and Igaal were holding their funeral rites. The sky was full of buzzards. But there were two fires over there, and I guessed that, like my people, the Hena burned their dead.
There was a strong wind, fitful like the shoorai wind, and dust scudded along the plain where yesterday people had fought. Dogs and children rushed about, unruly and wrought up, disturbed by the changes in the camp and the tension in the air. I looked up at the sky, saw the clouds streaming like banners in the high gales, and felt my own heart stirred by huge, unseen forces.
When I looked down again the man Embry was walking toward me. He wore no armor, but over the tunic of his uniform he still wore the blue sashes in the form of a cross. All his men wore those blue crosses, though I recalled that the soldiers in Jaganath’s army did not.
“Good morning, Avala,” he said.
“I suppose it is,” I said, “but for the funeral rites. We owe you thanks, Embry. If it were not for your help yesterday, most of the Igaal men in this camp would be slaves in Navora by now, or else dead. Thank you.”