Darkover: First Contact (37 page)

It took the rest of the day to round up the wagons and pack beasts, to bury the three men they had lost. Seven more were hurt more or less badly; one of those, Bard knew, and grieved, would never survive the long trek in winter back to Asturias. Master Gareth had taken a thigh wound but said that he would probably be able to ride the next day.

And through it all, with merciless silence and justice, the snow continued to fall. The short autumn day darkened early into night. Bard’s men raided the wagons for the best of their supplies and cooked a feast. One of the pack beasts had broken a leg, and one man who had experience as a butcher slaughtered it properly, and set its carcass for pit roasting. The Dry-towners had plenty of wine with them, too, the sweet heavy treacherous stuff from Ardcarran, and Bard gave his men license to drink whatever they would, since the sentry bird, and Mirella’s Sight, confirmed that there were no enemy near them. They sat and sang rowdy songs and bragged of what they had done in the battle, and Bard sat and watched them.

Melora said, standing behind him in her gray cloak, “I wonder how they can sit so, and laugh and sing, after such a day of blood and slaughter, and so many of their friends, and even their enemies, lying dead.”

Bard said, “Why,
damisela,
you are not afraid of the ghosts of the dead, are you? Do you think the dead come around, jealous because the living are enjoying themselves?”

She shook her head silently. Then she said, “No. But for me this would be a time of mourning.”

“You are not a soldier, lady. For a soldier, each battle he survives is an occasion to rejoice that he continues to live. And so they feast, and sing, and drink, and if we were on the march with a regular army, not a foray alone like this, they would take their pleasure with the camp followers, too, or be off to the nearest town for women.”

She shuddered and said, “At least there are no towns near for them to pillage and rape—”

“Why,
damisela,
if men go into danger of death, it is the fortunes of war; why should women be immune from that fortune? Most women accept it peacefully enough,” he said, laughing, and noticed that she did not look away or simper or giggle as most of the women he knew would have done, shocked or pretending to be so.

She only said, quietly, “I suppose it is so; the excitement, the relief of being alive, instead of dead, the general shock of battle.... I had not thought. I would not have accepted it peacefully if the Dry-towners had won, though. I am very glad they did not; glad I am still alive.” She was standing close enough to him so that he could smell some faint perfume from her hair and her cloak. “I was frightened, for fear, if the battle went against us, I should not have courage to kill myself, but would accept—ravage, bondage, rape—rather than death—death seemed very horrible to me as I stood and watched men die—”

He turned and took her hand in his; she did not protest. He said in a low voice, “I am glad you are still alive, Melora.”

She said, just as low, “So am I.”

He drew her against him and kissed her, feeling with amazement how very soft her heavy body and full breasts felt against him, how warm her lips were under his. He could feel her yielding herself wholly to the kiss; but she drew back afterward, a little, and said softly, “No, I beg you, Bard. Not here, not like this, not with all your men around us. . . . I would not refuse you, you have my word of that,” she said, “but not like this; I have been told . . . it is not right. . . .”

Reluctantly, Bard let her go.
I could love her so easily,
he thought.
She is not beautiful, but she is so warm, so sweet
. . . and all the pent-up excitement of the day surged in him. And yet he knew that she was right, too. Where there were no accessible women for the other men, it went against all decency and custom for the commander to have his own; Bard was a soldier and he knew better than to take any privilege his men could not share. Her willingness made it all the worse. He had never before felt so close to any woman.

Yet—he drew a deep breath of resignation. He said, “The fortunes of war, Melora. Perhaps—one day—”

“Perhaps,” she said gently, giving him her hand and looking into his eyes. It seemed to him that he had never wanted any woman so much. Next to her all the women he had known were like children, Lisarda no more than a child playing with her dolls, even Carlina childish and unripe. And yet, to his surprise, he had no desire to press the matter. He knew perfectly well that he could put a compulsion on her, so that she would come, unseen by any of his men, to his bed after the whole camp slept; and yet the very thought filled him with loathing. He wanted her just as she was, her whole self, of her free will, desiring him. He knew that if he had only her body, all that made her
Melora
would be gone. Her body, after all, was only that of a fat, ungainly woman, young but already sagging and slovenly. It was something more that made her so infinitely desirable to him, and for a moment he wondered, and raised his eyes, blurting out the question.

“Have you put a spell on me, Melora?”

She raised her hands, laying them on either side of his face, the fat fingers closing around his cheeks with great tenderness, and looked straight into his eyes. Beyond the fire the men were singing a rowdy song:

“Ah, no, Bard,” Melora said very gently. “It is only that we have touched, you and I; we have been honest with each other, and that is a rare thing between a man and a woman. I love you well; I wish things were different, that we were somewhere else than in this place tonight.” She leaned forward and touched his lips, very gently, with her own, not with desire but with a tenderness which warmed him more than the wildest passion. “Good night, my dear friend.”

He pressed her fingers and let her go, watching her walk away, with regret and a sadness that was new to him.

Beltran said behind him, “They seem to be enjoying themselves. They’ve got some new verses I hadn’t heard.” He chuckled. “I remember when our tutors beat us for copying the dirtier verses of that one in Carlina’s copybook.”

Bard said, glad to have something else to think about, “I remember you telling him that it proved girls shouldn’t learn to read.”

“But I would as soon leave reading to women who have nothing more important to do,” Beltran said, “though I suppose I will have to sign state papers and such matters.” He leaned over Bard; his breath was sweet and winy, and Bard realized the boy had been drinking, perhaps a bit more than he could handle. “It’s a good night to get drunk.”

“How is your wound?”

Beltran chuckled and said, “Wound, hell! My horse ran away with me down the hill and I slipped in my saddle and bashed my face into the saddle horn, and gave myself a nosebleed; so I fought all the battle with blood pouring down my face! I think I must have looked very fearsome!” He edged under Bard’s tarpaulin, pitched with the open end toward the fire, and sat down there. The tarpaulin over them kept the snow off. “It seems to be clearing, at last.”

“We’ll have to find out if any of the men have any skill at driving wagons and handling pack beasts.”

Beltran yawned hugely. “Now that it’s over, I feel I could sleep for a tenday. Look, it’s early still, but most of the men are drunk as monks at midwinter.”

“What else do you expect them to do, with no women around?”

Beltran shrugged. “I don’t grudge them their skinful. Between you and me, Bard, I’m as well pleased . . . . I remember after the battle of Snow Glens, a group of the younger men dragged me with them to a whorehouse in the town—” He made a fastidious grimace. “I’ve no taste for such games.”

“I prefer willing companions, not paid ladies, myself,” Bard agreed, “though, after a battle like this, I doubt I’d know the difference.” Yet inwardly he knew he was not telling the truth. Tonight he wanted Melora, and even if he had had the pick of all the courtesans of Thendara or Carcosa, he would still have chosen her. Would he have chosen her over Carlina? He found he did not want to think about that. Carlina was his handfasted wife, and that was different.

“You haven’t had enough to drink, foster brother,” Beltran said, and handed him a bottle. Bard put it to his lips and drank, long and deep, glad to feel the strong wine blurring away the pain of knowing that Melora had wanted him, as much as he wanted her, and that he had, surprising himself, agreed to let her go. Had she scorned him, regarded him as easy, a soft touch, a green boy who was afraid to impose his will on a woman? Was she playing games with him? No, he would have staked his manhood on her honesty....

One of the men was playing a
rryl
. They shouted for Master Gareth to come and sing for them, but Melora came quietly from their tent.

“My father begs that you will excuse him,” she said. “He is in great pain from his wound and cannot sing.”

“Will you come and share our wine, lady?” But their tone was very respectful, and Melora shook her head. “I will take my father a glass, if I may. It will help him to sleep, perhaps; but my kinswoman and I must care for him, and so we will not drink. But I thank you.” Her eyes sought out Bard where he sat in the darkness across the fire, and he thought there was a new sadness in them.

“I thought he was not much wounded,” Bard said.

“Why, so did I,” Beltran said, “though I have heard that sometimes the Dry-towners put poisons of one sort or another on their blades. Never heard of anyone who died from it, though.” Again he yawned, hugely.

The men around the fire sang ballad after ballad. At last the fire sank down and was covered, and the men, in groups of two or three or four against the cold, settled down into their blankets. Bard went quietly to the tent shared by the women and now by the wounded
laranzu.

“How does Master Gareth?” he asked, stooping close to the entrance.

“The wound is greatly inflamed, but he is sleeping,” Mirella whispered, kneeling at the doorway. “I thank you for inquiring.”

“Is Melora within?”

Mirella looked up at him, her eyes wide and serious, and suddenly he knew that Melora had confided in her—or had the younger girl read Melora’s mind and her thoughts?

“She is sleeping, sir.” Mirella hesitated, then said in a rush, “She cried herself to sleep, Bard.” Their eyes met, with sympathy and warmth. She touched his hand, lightly. He found that he spoke through a lump in his throat.

“Good night, Mirella.”

“Good night, my friend,” she said softly, and he knew that she did not lightly use the word. Filled with a strange mixture of bitterness and warmth, he strode away, back to the dying campfire and the darkened half-tent he shared with Beltran. In silence, he drew off boots, sword belt, unstrapped the dagger at his waist.

“You are
bredin
to a Dry-town bandit, Bard.” Beltran laughed in the darkness. “For you have exchanged daggers, one for the other. . . .”

Bard hefted the dagger in his hand. “I doubt I shall ever fight with it, for it is too light for my hand,” be said, “but it is marvelously ornamental, worked with copper and gems, and it is a legitimate prize of war; so I will wear it upon great occasions, and excite the envy of all.” He slid the weapon under the flap of the tarpaulin. “Poor devil, he lies colder than we do tonight.”

They stretched out, side by side. Bard’s thoughts were with the woman who cried herself to sleep, across the camp. He had drunk enough to blur the worst of the pain, but not all.

Beltran said into the darkness, “I was not as much afraid as I thought I would be. Now it is over, it does not seem so frightening. . . .”

“It never does,” Bard said. “Afterward it is simple—even exhilarating—and all you want is a drink, or a woman, or both. . . .”

“Not I,” Beltran said. “I think a woman would sicken me at this point; I would rather drink with my comrades. What have women to do with war?”

“Ah, well, you’re still young,” Bard said affectionately, and his hand closed over his foster brother’s. Not knowing whether it was his own thought or Beltran’s, a vagrant thought floated across his mind,
I wish Geremy were with us
. . . . He remembered, at the edge of sleep, nights when all three of them had slept together like this, on hunting trips, fire-watch; fumbled, childish experimentation in the dark; memories pleasant, kindly, soothing the raw edges of his pain over Melora; he had loyal friends and comrades, foster brothers who loved him well.

At the edge of sleep, half dreaming, he felt Beltran’s body pressed tight against his, and the boy whispered, “I would—would pledge to you, too, foster brother; shall we exchange knives, too?”

Bard, shocked awake, stared and burst out laughing.

“By the Goddess!” he said coarsely, “you are younger than I thought, Beltran! Do you still think I am boy enough to take my pleasure with boys? Or do you think because you are Carlina’s brother I will take you for her?” He could not stop laughing. “Well, well, who would have thought it—that Geremy Hastur is still young enough to take field-license with his playmates!” The word he used was a coarser one, army gutter slang, and he heard Beltran’s choked cry of shame and shock in the darkness. “Well, whatever Geremy may choose to do, Beltran, I am not fond of such childish games. Can’t you behave like a man?”

Even in the dark he could see that Beltran’s face was flooded with angry color. The boy choked, half crying, and sat up. He said, through a sob of rage, “Damn you, you whoreson bastard! I swear, I will kill you for that, Bard—”

“What, from love to hatred so quickly?” mocked Bard. “You are still drunk,
bredillu
. Come, little brother, it’s only a game, you’ll outgrow it someday. Lie down and go back to sleep now, and don’t be silly.” He spoke kindly, now that his first shock was past. “It’s all right.”