And the dreadful day wore on.
The pain from the stump of Rayster’s amputated left arm caused him to groan aloud. This display of weakness annoyed the clansman, and he gritted his teeth as the orderly continued to wrap the honey and wine soaked bandage around the cauterized stump. Sweat gleamed upon Rayster’s face, and his jaw ached from where he had bitten so hard into the leather strap the surgeon had placed between his teeth. ‘I can give you something to dull the pain,’ said the orderly, a soft-faced man with large, friendly eyes. Rayster shook his head. He had no strength to reply. It was all he could do to stop from screaming out in his agony.
His head sank back to the pillow. For an hour he fought the pain, after refusing the narcotics offered by the orderly. In the distance he could hear the cannon fire. Finally he struggled up. All around him were wounded men, overworked orderlies moving among them.
Rayster stood, then staggered. The first orderly ran back to him. ‘What do you think you are doing, man?’
‘Where is my cloak?’
Sweat dripped into Rayster’s eyes. Then he saw the garment in a heap on the floor by a window. The orderly gathered it up. Rayster’s sword, pistol and knife were lying beneath it. ‘I will look after everything for you, clansman. I promise you. No-one will steal your weapons.’
Rayster took the cloak from the man and tried to swing it round his shoulders. It was difficult with one hand – and impossible to open the Rigante cloak brooch. Rayster felt a wave of despair roll over him. He looked into the soft eyes of the orderly. ‘Put my cloak on me,’ he said. ‘I’ll not die in here.’
For a moment the man appeared to be ready to argue the point, but then he expertly settled Rayster’s cloak into place, and unpinned the oval, bronze brooch. ‘I have seen these before,’ he said. ‘Usually there is a name embossed within the eye.’
Rayster did not reply. He stood and swayed, then he leaned down and picked up his pistol, thrusting it into his belt. ‘Strap on my sword belt,’ he said. The orderly complied. Rayster felt suddenly faint and sat down heavily. The orderly sat beside him.
‘You are a strong man,’ he said, ‘but you have lost much blood. You need to rest awhile, gather your strength. The body is a remarkable thing. It will heal itself, and you will learn to do everything you need, even though you have lost an arm.’
‘I am not concerned about the arm,’ said Rayster. ‘I have comrades out there.’
‘You’ll be no help to them in this state.’
Reluctantly Rayster lay back. Amazingly, despite the pain, he slept for a while. When he awoke he felt stronger, though not much. Rising, he forced himself to walk among the injured. Other Rigante wounded were somewhere in the castle’s west wing. Rayster located several of them. Their wounds were severe, and all of the men were unconscious, having availed themselves of the narcotic drink. The air in the wing was filled with a curious smell, making Rayster’s stomach queasy. Moving to the open doorway he stepped out into a hallway beyond. It was filled with corpses, the bodies laid out in rows.
Rayster moved on. In a nearby corridor he saw a group of some twenty Rigante sitting together. Two, like him, had endured amputations. One had lost a hand, the other had a bloody bandage over the stump of his lower left leg. Most of the others had bandaged wounds to the upper body, and one had lost an eye. The man with the amputated left hand saw Rayster and called out. ‘Looks like we were both lucky, eh, Rayster? Never was much use with my left.’
Rayster moved to where they sat. Weary now he sank alongside the man. ‘You never were much good with your right, Connal.’
Connal Ironlatch grinned. ‘Can you believe they wanted to take our weapons away? My father would flay me alive if I came home without his favourite sword.’
‘Aye, he was put out when Bael told him to stay home,’ said Rayster. ‘Never seen him so angry.’