The stars were bright, like frozen snowflakes on a velvet blanket, the moon a bright silver coin at the centre. She shivered. Ahead of her a tall man in black and silver armour strode towards the mess hall. It was Hogun. He saw her and waved, changed direction and came towards her. She cursed under her breath; she was tired and in no mood for male company.
‘How is he?’ asked Hogun.
Tough!’ she said.
‘I know that, Caessa. The whole world knows it. But how is he?’
‘He’s old, and he’s tired – exhausted. And that’s after only one day. Don’t pin too many hopes on him. He has a knee which could collapse under him at any time, a bad back which will grow worse and too many crystals in too many joints.’
‘You paint a pessimistic picture,’ said the general.
‘I tell it as it is. It is a miracle that he’s alive tonight. I cannot see how a man of his age, with the physical injuries he’s carrying, could fight all day and survive.’
‘And he went where the fighting was thickest,’ said Hogun. ‘As he will do tomorrow.’
‘If you want him to survive, make sure he rests the day after.’
‘He will never stand for it,’ said Hogun.
‘Yes, he will. He may get through tomorrow – and that I doubt. But by tomorrow night he will hardly be able to move his arm. I will help him, but he will need to rest one day in three. And an hour before dawn tomorrow, I want a hot tub set up in his room here. I will massage him again before the battle begins.’
‘You’re spending a lot of time over a man you described as “old and tired”, and whose deeds you mocked only a short-time since?’
‘Don’t be a fool, Hogun. I am spending this time with him because he is old and tired, and though I do not hold him in the same reverence as you, I can see that the men need him. Hundreds of little boys playing at soldiers to impress an old man who thrives on war.’
‘I will see that he rests after tomorrow,’ said Hogun.
‘If he survives,’ Caessa added grimly.
21
By midnight the final toll for the first day’s battle was known. Four hundred and seven men were dead. One hundred and sixty-eight were wounded and half of those would not fight again.
The surgeons were still working and the head count was being double-checked. Many Drenai warriors had fallen from the battlements during the fighting, and only a complete roll call would supply their numbers.
Rek was horrified, though he tried not to show it during the meeting with Hogun and Orrin in the study above the great hall. There were seven present at this meeting: Hogun and Orrin representing the warriors; Bricklyn for the townsfolk; Serbitar, Vintar and Virae. Rek had managed to snatch four hours’ sleep and felt fresher for it; the albino had slept not at all and seemed no different.
‘These are grievous losses for one day’s fighting,’ said Bricklyn. ‘At that rate, we could not hold out for more than two weeks.’ His greying hair was styled after the fashion of the Drenai court, swept back over his ears and tight-curled at the nape of the neck. His face, though fleshy, was handsome and he had a highly-practised charm. The man was a politician, and therefore not to be relied upon, thought Rek.
Serbitar answered Bricklyn. ‘Statistics mean nothing on the first day,’ he said. “The wheat is being separated from the chaff.’
‘What does that mean, Prince of Dros Segril?’ asked the burgher, the question more sharp in the absence of his usual smile.
‘No disrespect was intended to the dead,’ replied Serbitar. ‘It is merely a reality in war that the men with the least skill are those first to fall. Losses are always greater at the outset. The men fought well, but many of the dead lacked skill – that is why they are dead. The losses will diminish, but they will still be high.’
‘Should we not concern ourselves with what is tolerable?’ asked the burgher, turning to Rek. ‘After all, if we should believe that the Nadir will breach the walls eventually, what is the point of continued resistance? Are lives worth nothing?’