Aldora was kneeling beside the herald ere anyone else had hardly started forward. Expertly, she peeled back an eyelid, then announced, “He’s burning with fever. One of you ride and fetch a horselitter. Someone help me get off his cuirass … but gently, mind you. He may have other hurts not so apparent.”
Tomos did. High on one hip, an angry, festering wound sullenly oozed with pus and serum. It had been amateurishly bandaged, and friction against the high cantle of his warkak had torn the cloths loose.
A nearby bodyguard blanched and touched fingers to his Sun charm. “And he rode in here smiling, he did! How could he^even bear to sit a horse?”
Herbuht Mai said, “A lifetime of self-discipline and generations of breeding … that, and ten leagues of pure guts. Yonder, trooper, lies a man]”
Bearing Tomos Gonsalos’ white-pennoned lanceshaft, . Milo paced his palomino stallion, unchallenged, into the outskirts of Zenos’ camp. The camp was about as he had expected: under makeshift shelters, agonized men groaned and writhed; the air was thick with flies and heavy with the nauseating miasma of corruption and death; off to one side, an officer in hacked armor hobbled about, supervising the digging of a long mass grave and piled corpses patiently awaited its completion. A question put to this officer elicited directions to Zenos’ “pavilion.”
Outside the mean little tent, Milo slid from his kak and paced to the entry. Two tired-looking pikemen barred his way and politely asked his name, station, and business.
When Milo told them, their eyes goggled and the one on the right gulped, then bawled, “Komees Greemos, please, my lord; Komees Greemos …”
A noble-officer limped to the entrance. The smudges under his eyes were nearly as black as the eyes themselves, and his bruised and battered face was lined with care and exhaustion. Although Milo had never seen the mountainous man, he well knew his reputation as strategist, tactician, and warrior.
“I am Milo, High-Lord of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, Lord Komees. I come in peace. Please announce me to King Zenos. I would speak with him on matters of great urgency.”
Milo felt instant liking for his young adversary. Zenos stood as tall as Milo, a bit over six feet. His eyes were brown and his gaze frank and open. His thick glossy hair shone a rich, dark chestnut, and his face was smooth-shaven. From what he knew of the young monarch, Milo would be willing to wager that he had had far less rest than any one of his remaining officers, yet he appeared as fresh as if he had but arisen from twelve hours’ sleep. The grip of his hard, browned hand was firm.
“You are most welcome, Lord Milo.” He waved his guest to one of the three seats—upended sections of sawn log, bark still on—that surrounded a battered, lightly charred field table.
Once seated, Milo got to the point of his visit, disregarding polite protocol. “Your herald, Tomos Gonsalos, lies in my pavilion. His wounds are grievous and he is being tended by the High-Lady Aldora, who possesses certain wisdoms and skills in healing.”
“Poor, brave, loyal Tomos.” Zenos slowly shook his head. “God grant that he lives, for there are too few of his kind in my kingdom. “Would that I had not had to send him, hurt as I knew him to be, but it would not have been fitting to send a common trooper to issue my invitation to you and the High-Lady, my lord. Tomos is my own cousin.”
“Where,” Milo asked, “are your fohreeohee, your eeahtrosee? Men who’ve fought bravely deserve professional tending. And what in Sun’s name happened to your camp and baggage? My captains all assure me that there was no sack.”
Standing near the entrance, Komees Greemos growled deep in his throat and commenced to mumble a litany of curses.
Zenos cracked his knuckles. “I will be candid,”my lord. Toward the end of the battle, certain of my mountaineer irregulars withdrew … rather precipitately. There was no rout, you understand, they are all brave men; but their loyalty was to me, personally, and some fool convinced them that I had been slain. It was they who sacked the camp, stole what they fancied or could carry, and burned the remainder. They slew every man who tried to restrain them or who got between them and anything they wanted. My pavilion alone they spared, but I had it dismantled and recut to make flies and bandages.”