Scholar

50

Quaeryt had been right. The ride back to Boralieu took slightly more than three glasses, and along the way, another ranker collapsed over his saddle, and the one captive, a broad-faced youth in brown leathers, died.

Since he was one of the least badly wounded, Quaeryt waited another glass in the anteroom to the surgery. One of the aides to the surgeon checked the field dressing on his wound and cleaned the edges while he waited along with a white-faced older ranker with a broken arm.

He had a chance to think while he waited, and the princeps’s words-those from his first meeting with Straesyr-came back to him. He’d wondered about archers, and now, unhappily, he understood. The brigands had been out of sight the entire time of the attack. Archers with the company would indeed have been useless. He wanted to shake his head, but feared even that would increase the pain.

After a time, the ranker looked at Quaeryt. “Sir … you took a bolt in the chest, didn’t you?”

“That’s where it hit.”

“You worked it out, the squad leader said. Most men die if they do that. The flanges on those bolts are back-barbed tools of the Namer.”

“I didn’t know that. I didn’t know what to do.” That’s certainly true.

“You must be stronger than you look. Sometimes, it takes two men to get one of those out-but that’s after whoever’s hit is dead.” The young ranker winced as he moved.

“How is the arm?” asked Quaeryt quickly.

“It hurts. Seen enough of these … it might be shattered. Hope not. Sometimes you lose the whole arm.”

“I hope not, too.” What else can you say? In hopes of distracting the man, he asked, “Have you been with the regiment long?”

“Too long. Trying to finish a second term and get a stipend.”

“How are things now, with the hill holders, compared to when you first came?”

“They’re the same nasty bastards. Helped a lot when the governor built the post here. Helped more when he added another squad to each company.”

Another squad?

Before Quaeryt could ask more, one of the assistants to the surgeon came and led the ranker away, and Quaeryt sat there alone, but not for long, because the surgeon/healer-a gray-haired captain-appeared. “This way. We need to take a better look at that wound, scholar.”

In another small room, the surgeon captain removed the field dressing, carefully, and inspected the wound. “Hmmm … fair amount of bruising…” He frowned, then touched Quaeryt’s collarbone to the left and a touch above the wound. “Does that hurt?”

“It’s sore. Everything there is sore.”

The surgeon lifted a needle with blackish thread attached. “We’ll need to stitch this. Otherwise, every move you make will rip it wider. It’s already ripped some. You’ll need to keep it in a sling for a few days, too.”

The stitches weren’t pleasant, but they didn’t hurt nearly so much as either the quarrel hitting him or removing it had.

When he finished, the surgeon shook his head, then smiled. “I wish more turned out like this. You’re a fortunate man, scholar, thank the Nameless. Most bolts that hit the collarbone break it. Even a glancing blow will do it. That’s just the beginning of the damage. Some slice the big blood vessels, but when that happens, you die right then. The one that hit you didn’t do either. It’s not shallow, but it’s not all that deep, either. It must have been slowed by leaves or small branches. That doesn’t mean we don’t have to worry, but there’s a tincture in there, or spirits, I’d guess. How did you manage that?”

“I had some. How … I don’t really know. I’d heard it might help.”

“Sometimes. At least, the bolt wasn’t in the flesh all that long.”

“How did you know that?”

A wry expression appeared on the captain’s face. “I have seen more than a few wounds like this, scholar.”

“I’m sorry. No one even asked me, but you knew.”

“Sometimes, I do. It’s fairly clean. Clean as possible. Keep it that way. Watch the dressing … if there’s any greenish pus … any smell … we’ll have to cut and drain … If it looks to be healing, don’t fool with it. Are your guts upset?”

“They were after I got hit. After that, they’ve been all right.”

“Good. One of my assistants will be bringing you some ale. You’re to sit here quietly and drink it slowly. That will help combat the blood loss. From what’s on your garments, you lost more than I’d like to see. Don’t drink any water for the next few days-just ale or lager. And don’t eat very much tonight. Nothing, if you can manage it. Oh … you can get lager or ale between meals at the mess.” With that, the surgeon was gone.

More than a glass later, and after drinking a large mug of bitter ale, with his arm in the sling, Quaeryt walked slowly back toward the main building and the officers’ mess. Because he was a little light-headed, he took care with every step. It wouldn’t be all that long before the evening meal, and his quarters at Boralieu were almost as small as the room at the Tankard had been.

When he entered the mess, he didn’t even have to ask where to find ale or lager. A ranker came up and took in the sling and the caked blood. “Ah … lager or ale, sir?”

“Lager, please.” Quaeryt took a seat close to the end of the single long table, but it was too high to rest the arm in the sling on. So he pushed back the chair slightly and waited for the lager, which arrived quickly.

He really didn’t feel that thirsty, and just sipped it as he could and thought, trying to ignore the combination of sharp stabbing pain and dull throbbing aches in his chest and shoulder. The fact that the surgeon had seen more than a few crossbow-quarrel wounds and that the mess attendant hadn’t even asked what he wanted tended to confirm Rescalyn’s assessment of the dangers of the hill brigands.

After a time, close to two quints before the bells rang out fifth glass, Skarpa entered the mess, his head moving from side to side until he saw Quaeryt. He immediately hurried over, a puzzled expression on his face. “I’d heard you took a quarrel. I expected you to be laid out in the infirmary. Did I hear wrong?”

“No. I managed to get it out without ripping myself up more. It must have been slowed by leaves or something. It didn’t break the bone or cut too deep.”

“From all that blood, it wasn’t just a scratch, either,” Skarpa said.

“No. I’ll grant that. The surgeon had to stitch me up. He’s still worried about the blood loss and the wound turning bad, but he’s done what he can.”

“He’s had more experience than any one of us would like him to have.”

“I certainly learned firsthand just how nasty the hill brigands could be. Getting shot on the first patrol…” Quaeryt shook his head.

“It does happen. The governor’s always telling the troops that there are no safe patrols in the hill country. Almost every other one has some sort of trouble. One of the rankers who died was on his first patrol out of training.”

“I wondered about that. I think he was the one hit when I was. I managed to grab the reins of his mount … I mean, after I worked out the quarrel.”

Skarpa’s eyes widened for just a moment. “You saw him get hit?”

“No. I got hit. Later, I saw him, but he died before I could do anything. Then I got his mount.”

“You took a quarrel, worked it out, caught a stray mount, and then rode back here?”

“It wasn’t that easy. My … guts … didn’t agree after I got the quarrel out, and I had to hold a cloth over the field dressing most of the way back to keep the bleeding down until it finally stopped.”

“You should have been a cavalry officer.”

“Me? I was so stupid that I ducked too late. I didn’t even realize that pattering sound was quarrels going through leaves.” Quaeryt paused. “Why would they shoot through leaves?”

“Because you can’t get a totally clean shot in the woods. That’s one reason why they use the crossbows. They’ve got more power, and they don’t get stopped as easily.”

“I still can’t believe I just watched for a moment.”

Skarpa laughed. “That’s what makes a good officer. Everyone makes mistakes. Those who are smart enough or tough enough to survive become good officers.”

Quaeryt had his doubts, but he wasn’t about to contradict the major.

What he did know was that, once he felt better, he definitely needed more practice with his shields. He also needed to be too sick to ride back to Tilbora until he was far more healed than anyone thought he was, because he had a very bad feeling about things.