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.I saw Bardolf s cousin, Edroc,dead beside old Barbansen, and there s a few score Sheld in and Leysach inamong their ranks, warriors out of Galshorros and Sulgaard.You wantthem alive? If you can take them, Rogan shouted,  which I doubt.Look!This was what he had waited and prayed to see.The survivors of thehost that had wreaked havoc at Coepen Highdale were taking to theirheels, fleeing north toward Eisweg, with a baying pack of hellhounds rightbehind them, driving them toward the archers.It was almost over, and Rogan s heart beat hard against his ribs as hereached out with a gauntleted hand and grasped the javelin shaft whichcarried Hrald Barbansen s colors.Without ceremony, he passed it to Tristan. For me? Tristan took it with a puzzled look. Next to bearing the colors of your own clan, Rogan told him, carrying home the disgraced colors of a defeated, routed enemy is thegreatest honor a warrior can win. Then you carry them, Tris protested, though he was clearly delight-ed. I ve done nothing to earn this.I m not a warrior. Maybe not.and I ve no wish for you to become one, Rogan admit-ted,  but you ll soon be espoused to a Thered in colonel.And that, my lad,is very nearly as fine as bearing arms yourself.Carry my standard to battle,if you will.Carry the banners of our enemies home to Althea, where they llbe mounted as trophies in Damiel s great hall.Tristan had balanced the weight of Barbansen s standard and lookedup at the three banners on the javelin shaft, bright in the fragile morninglight. Rigel would have loved this.It s been terrible, Rogan.and glori-ous.I hope I never see anything like it again, but I m glad to have beenhere, now.Because this is the last time, isn t it? Please gods, let it be thelast. It should be. Rogan took a deep breath, smelt the reek and stench ofbattle, and turned his eyes to the sky. It might be the last in our lifetime.It s the fight we ve waited for all our lives, Damiel and Morgan, Stefan and.and Rigel and me.The Hallorans. He shortened the reins and broughtthe horse around. It s almost done now.Leave the rest to the archers,north of their ramparts.Ride back to camp with me.The field camp had been pitched not two miles south.Riggers had207followed on with the pack mules, and the moment they judged the battlewould be won, a crude, spartan transit camp was established.By the timeRogan and Tristan rode in, the fires were lit, the surgeons tents were up,food and hot wine were ready, stablemen and horse doctors were ready tocare for the animals.Battlefield stewards  every one a retired cavalryman had already carried many of the wounded in for care.Some of them would not live; some died on the way in.But many morewould survive.The majority would walk away from this bloody field andtell tales of hell and glory.Glory? As always, when it was finished, Rogan was sick to his belly.Asteward offered him a cup of mulled wine as he dismounted, and he drankit to the dregs, but no sooner had it hit his stomach than it came back, vileand acid in his mouth.Only Tristan was there with him to see the truth,that the Zhenander, the great colonel of the Harbendane regiments, retchedhis belly dry behind the tent where the wounded horses were treated.Without a word, Tristan fetched a fresh cup, brimmed with cold waterand pieces of blue-green glacier ice, a wet cloth, a sprig of sugarmint.Rogan used all three with a nod of gratitude. You never get used to it, he said slowly. It s the stench of death thatundoes me, every time, and the agony, and the dying horses and dogs, andthe screams.and I ve given the orders that sent men and women andanimals into the middle of it, and most often I ve swung a sword amongthem, and seen my friends cut down beside me. And your kin, Tristan added.He slipped an arm about Rogan swaist. You saw your brother die just a few hours ago, and the gods onlyknow what friends.On your orders.And you re wounded yourself.It sbeen a bitter day  bad enough for me, and I was a mere observer! If you dbeen down there among it, I d have been emptying my belly into theheather long before this.Rogan dragged the cold, frost-sharp air into the bottom of his chest. Are you up to working? Find the sergeants and lieutenants.Find LynGustav, if you can.if he survived.I need to know who s dead, who s hurt,how many we lost.How many horses.Find out how many wagons weneed to get the injured to Mount Corry.Make me up a list of how badlywe ve been hurt, and then write a short version for the dispatches. Heangled a look at the sky. What hour do you make it? Something like nine, Tristan guessed [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]