Legend of the Swords: War (18 page)

I guess they’ve done this before.
Renek smiled.
Maybe even more than once.

Renek looked up and down the line of soldiers. He thought about the chaos of the morning, and the assembled line of troops was even more striking. Seeing so many people moving in the same direction, horses in the front and rear, infantry in the middle, it was so … organized.

 
Perhaps what’s striking is that the chaos this morning was actually organized chaos.
He mused.
The march just
looks
more organized—it’s not, really. To pack up all of those tents, put them on the horses.
He grinned.
No wonder Rimes disapproves of Hesiod’s penchant for good food, it must make things a little bit more complex!

His stomach grumbled, and he looked at the sun. It was nearing its zenith, so it must be nearing lunch. Commander Rimes had said that they would not stop for lunch, but rather just eat some of the travel biscuits while marching.

He looked around and saw that several people had pulled out some of their biscuits already. He shrugged, and pulled one out. He sniffed it before biting a corner off. As always, it sucked all moisture out of his mouth as he chewed.

But I can understand Hesiod’s desire for decent food, too.
He grimaced.
These things get old after a while.

*   *   *

It took three days to march to the front. They had to march quite a ways to make sure to avoid the Triols who had overtaken them in the foothills. Luckily, they didn’t run into any problems, and they marched into the major base of kingdom operations in the evening of the third day.

The generals wanted to see Rimes right away, and he brought Hesiod and Renek with him.

They were lead into a fairly large tent, where were five men standing around a fairly large map, pushing simple blocks of wood around by hand. One of the five waved them over. A shock of pure white hair topped his browned, weather beaten face. His black eyes seemed surrounded by bruises and bags.

“Come over here and look at this, Hesiod,” the general said. Hesiod limped over, leaning on a crutch. The general stared at the amputated limb, brows furrowing with concern. “What happened to your leg?”

“Big guy with a bigger mace, General Richard.” Hesiod grimaced.

“We have one of the best healers in the kingdom next door,” Richard said, walking away from the table. “Let’s go take care of that leg.”

“Hesiod said that it might take more than one,” Rimes said.

General Richard knelt next to Hesiod. “It might,” he muttered. “That’s a lot of flesh gone. At least you have most of your thigh.” He stood up again, and glanced at Rimes. “Don’t worry, friend, we have more than one Singer here.” He held Hesiod’s elbow, and nodded to Rimes and Renek. “Give him a hand, gentlemen.”

The two soldiers put Hesiod’s arms around their shoulders, picked him up, and followed Richard to the tent next door.

There was only one occupant in the tent. She was an old, thin woman with very short white hair. When she looked up from her table, she saw Hesiod’s leg and winced. She rose silently to get a closer look at the wound.

Without a word, she knelt next to Hesiod and gently pulled the bandages off, then nodded absently to herself. She pushed and probed with her fingers, smiling in relief when the wound began to ooze a bit of blood.

“It is still wet, underneath the scab," she said, quietly. “It is possible to regrow this limb… but it will be asking a lot.” She looked up at the general. “General Richard, is this man a good man?”

Richard nodded. “He is one of the most favored of the king’s commanders, and he recently led his forces to an astounding victory against the Triols.” He lifted his eyebrows. “I still have the letter that he sent, a few hours after the battle. Would you like to see it?”

The healer nodded.

The general drew out a paper. He handed it to the Sorcerer, who read it carefully, while occasionally glancing at Hesiod.

“Very well.” She frowned deeply, then clapped her hands twice.

Renek winced. The sound seemed much louder than it should have been. It penetrated into his skull with its staccato force. By the time he fully opened his eyes again, there were two others entering the tent, both younger than the Singer that had called them.

One was vaguely familiar to Renek, which made his heart skip a beat. He was a thin man, perhaps a bit older than Renek. He seemed average in almost every way: brown hair, brown eyes, about average height … the more Renek looked at him, the less of a feeling of familiarity he had.

Renek sighed, and turned to look at the other Singer, and his heart skipped another beat. The other Singer was a woman, with long black hair framing a beautiful face. Here black eyes were striking, but Renek couldn’t read her expression. She seemed as delicate as a bird, and almost silent in her movements. Renek smiled momentarily—she was shorter than the soldiers by almost a head—but he remembered the situation they were in and quickly sobered his expression.

“You called, master?” the man asked.

“Yes I did. We need to heal this man.” The healer gestured to Hesiod.

“His leg is missing, master," he said, eyebrows raised.

“You speak truth. Here is a letter from the king that praises him well. As you know, we are here to support the king.” He handed the letter to the younger man, who read it, nodded, and handed it to the other Singer who had entered with him. She skimmed over the letter, and handed it back to the master healer with a nod.

“I will bring some hot water and towels,” the younger man said, striding out of the room.

The healer turned to peer into Hesiod’s face. “This will not be without pain, commander.”

Hesiod nodded.

“Good. I’m glad that you are prepared.” He pulled a piece of leather out of a pouch and handed it to Hesiod. “You may put this between your teeth and clench.” He gave a small shrug. “Some people find that it helps in dealing with the pain.”

The Singer returned, two towels over his shoulders and carrying a bucket of steaming water. He set the bucket on the floor and handed the towels to the master healer.

The master quickly brought out his chair, and gestured for Hesiod to sit in it. He carefully soaked one towel, and began to scrub the scabs off of the extended leg, which immediately started bleeding. After a few moments, Hesiod raised the leather strap to his mouth and bit down hard.

After all of the scab was removed, the healer gestured to one of the other Sorcerers, who pushed the other towel into the bucket.

The three began to chant. They were so in time with each other that Renek wasn’t able to tell who first sang, but their voices were quite different. The woman’s voice was amazingly beautiful, with a clear tone that almost seemed to make her into a living bell.

The master was slowly rubbing his hands in the blood that was weeping from the wound. In his hands, the blood seemed to congeal. Renek stared at the second assistant healer. He was struggling with some of the words. He somehow seemed … familiar? There was nothing distinct about the man. About Renek’s age, brown hair, brown eyes, narrow face.

I must have seen him around the camp.
He studied the man’s face. Sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead, but it was a strong face. One that showed the start of many fine wrinkles, despite the fact he couldn’t yet be thirty.
Or maybe he’s so … average? I saw someone else who looked like him.
Renek shook his head.
No, I don’t know what it is.

The chanting increased its speed and volume, and the blood poured out of the leg faster. Hesiod pulled on both ends of the strap that he was chewing on. As the blood poured into the master healer’s hands, it seemed to thicken further, and to change color. The blood in his hands was the consistency and color of watery clay. He began to sculpt a new leg for Hesiod out of the clay-colored blood.

The young man that Renek thought seemed familiar was gasping for breath. Sweat had begun pouring off of his face. He gasped, and fell over, falling into the master healer. Clay-colored blood flew from his hands and struck the inside of the tent as he fell over.

Their chant was broken, and the clay-colored blood started to dry, to solidify.

War

The master healer had fallen directly onto his back, throwing his blood-covered hands up away from the dirt. The female healer, after a momentary pause, resumed her chanting.

“Renek, help him,” Hesiod said through his clenched teeth.

Renek blinked in shock, then leapt to the side of the master healer. Even before he was back in place, the Singer was chanting again, falling quickly back in tune and tempo with the woman. His timber had changed significantly, however, and Hesiod’s clay leg seemed harder, more viscous.

The young male healer was flat on his back, unconscious.

It seemed only to take a moment before it was done. Hesiod had chewed all the way through the leather, but his leg was solid, bright pink flesh.

“The pinkness will last for at least two weeks.” The healer was swaying, and reached out hold on to the back of a chair. “Your new skin needs to age before it obtains the color of the rest of your body.” He looked at general Richard. “General, the three of us will need food, and strong wine. As quickly as possible.” He staggered over to his table, and sat on the floor of his tent, his back up against the table leg. The other two joined him, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him.

Richard nodded. “I’ll see to it immediately.” He glanced at Hesiod’s new leg, sticking out from beneath his cut trousers. “Thank you.”

In two steps, he was out of the tent.

Hesiod stood up, smiling, and limped over to the healers to thank them.

*   *   *

Later that day they gathered in the generals’ tent to discuss the coming battle. After hearing the tale of the last two battles first hand, they treated Rimes and Renek like commanders in their own right, and engaged them in the discussion of the terrain and placement of their forces.

“That’s why I think that we need to work on outwitting them.” Renek finished. He moved several of the kingdom pieces around, and finally gesturing at the large blocks of wood that represented the enemy forces. “There are just too many of them. We need to coax their forces into making a mistake, we don’t have a chance otherwise.” The generals nodded in agreement. Hesiod smiled, a bit of pride showing through at his newest soldier’s stratagems.

“I don’t think that will work,” a clear voice rang out from the entrance of the tent. A young man brushed past the tent flaps. Despite his youth, he was wearing general’s epaulets.

Renek started to speak, gesturing at the map. “I heard your ‘strategy’ … soldier. There’s no reason to repeat it,” the newcomer said. “I just don’t think that it’s very honorable.” He took three long steps up to the map, and began to move the pieces of wood back to their original positions. The older generals seemed to wince in unison.

Renek looked closely at him while he did so. He had a high brow, and intelligent brown eyes. His nose was hooked, but not overly large. He had an air of self-confidence about him—or perhaps it was just ego.

“I think that we should mount a frontal assault,” the youth continued. “If we run our main line up to these hills,
here
,” he gestured, and slid some blocks up to the valley, “then they won’t be able to engage us with more than a third of their forces. It will be a fair fight, since we will be able to present them with our entire force.”

“But they will be able to fight all day long, from there,” Renek protested. “They’ll be able to bring in fresh soldiers just as ours are getting tired.”

The young general turned to look at Renek. “What is your name, soldier?”

“Renek.”

“I don’t see epaulets on your shoulders.” He theatrically pushed his face towards Renek, peering first at his right shoulder, then his left. “No, I definitely don’t see epaulets.

“Why are you challenging me, then?” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “Could it be that you don’t know that
I
am a general?” He looked down at his shoulders. “Am I not wearing my epaulets?” he questioned, then shook his head. “No, I see that I am wearing them.” He stared into Renek’s eyes. “Perhaps you’re unaware that I am the crown prince, and therefore the senior officer of this force?”

Renek bowed his head. “I was unaware of that, your majesty.”

The prince nodded sharply, then turned to the generals. “We’ll do it my way, gentlemen. At sunrise tomorrow, then?” He turned to walk out of the tent, but paused at the threshold. “And see to it that our future strategy sessions are populated by people of the
proper
rank, would you?”

Richard looked at Hesiod, and shrugged. “That’s our boy,” he muttered.

“But his strategy is ludicrous!” Renek protested. “Our men will die, and we can do nothing?”

The generals refused to meet his eyes. Hesiod lifted his hands, helplessly, then spoke. “Would you rather have your head cut off and your name be sullied for treason? Renek, the man is the heir to the kingdom.” He smiled sadly. “In some ways, he is the embodiment of the kingdom itself.”

Renek stared at him. “So if he wants his soldiers to die, who are we to question him.” He nodded, slowly. “I will do as he asks—but you, generals, should be able to influence him to do something better than this.”

He stormed out of the tent, leaving the generals looking at the guilt in each other’s eyes.

*   *   *

“You wanted to see me, commander?” Renek asked.

Hesiod was sitting on his bed, wearing only his under things, examining his pink leg. “I’m no commander, Renek. That’s Rimes, now. I’m just a Lieutenant.” He grinned. “I specifically asked general Richard to demote me. I’m tired of being a commander, and I don’t know how well this leg will hold up.” He winked at Renek.

“You seem happy about it.” Renek smiled. “Your grin is infectious.”

Hesiod laughed. “I smile easily, today.” He gestured at his new leg. “Nothing makes you happier than the return of what was once lost.”