“Yes, a commander’s first obligation is to his men,” Milo said in agreement. “Would you accept the services of my eeahtrosee, those of them who can be spared from treating our own wounded?”
Komees Greemos limped over. “And what concessions will be required in return?” he snapped.
Milo looked up into the hulking nobleman’s cold stare. “None,” he said flatly. Then he added, “However, I would like to instigate a series of conferences with His Majesty and his council. Let me make it clear, however, that the offer of medical assistance is not contingent upon any other of my plans. I simply dislike to see good fighters suffer and die needlessly.”
Zenos’ brown eyes had misted and, though his features remained fixed, his voice quavered slightly as he once more gripped Milo’s hand. “Two generations of my house have died fighting you, my lord, so probably shall I; but I shall never forget this act of unexpected generosity. Of course I accept, and I pray that God bless you.”
“As for a conference with me and my council, that will be easy enough. Of the original council, only Greemos, here, and Thoheeks Serbikos are left; all the others fell in battle, as befitted men of their caste. Serbikos and his lancers are presently out foraging, but he should be back well before night, and we three can meet with you at your convenience. Can we not, Greemos?”
The officer shrugged his massive shoulders. “Whatever my King wishes.” He turned again to Milo. “How many armed men are coming with your eeahtrosee, my lord?”
Milo ignored Greemos’ open hostility. “Not a one, Lord Komees. I had supposed that your army had sufficient hale men to give them what workforces they might require.”
Greemos bobbed his head shortly. “Yes, that we can. I add my thanks to those of my King. I, too, want living, healthy troops, rather than corpses and cripples; well need them when next we battle your armies.”
King Zenos looked appalled at this open threat in the face of unasked-for generosity. But Milo chuckled good-naturedly.
“You’re nothing if not blunt and honest, Lord Greemos. I wonder not that Herbuht Mai spoke so highly of you.”
There was an almost imperceptible thaw in the Komees’ manner. “The gentleman-captain is a good officer. He is just and honorable in his dealings, and the provisions he set for the truce might have been much harsher. He is a worthy foeman, my lord.”
The first meeting took place three days later at Milo’s pavilion. King Zenos arrived flanked by the dark, hulking Komees Greemos and by a freckle-faced, gray-haired officer who looked like an older version of Tomos Gon-sales.
Milo had brought along Herbuht Mai, of course, since he alone seemed to be able to get civil speech from the grim Greemos, as well as Guhsz Helluh. He had deliberately excluded Aldora. He had seen her disrupt more than one otherwise peaceful conference, and the combination of her vitriolic tongue and Greemos’ pugnacity might well precipitate another pitched battle—something both he and Zenos wished to avoid. His other two captains were camp and perimeter commanders of the day, respectively. He had requested Captain oi Physicians Ahbdool to attend for a specific purpose.
With wine served and amenities observed, Milo began. “King Zenos, Captain Ahbdool and his staff would like to bring the bulk of your more seriously wounded into my camp to continue treatment. For one thing, my camp is on higher ground and, consequently, healthier; for another, such an arrangement would immensely ease the tasks of the eeahtrosee, who must now spend much of their day in transit from one camp to another. Besides, we’re better supplied—in all ways.”
“Only,” snapped Greemos, “because we presently lack the forces to raid your lines of supply. But these wounded of ours, what would be their status? Prisoners?
Hostages?”
“Recuperating soldiers,” Milo quickly answered. “They’ll be free to return whenever they are fit and wish to do so. They’ll be lodged in the same tents with our own wounded and all will receive equal food and treatment. Their friends may visit them and you and your officers may inspect at will.”
“At whose will?” demanded Greemos. “Yours or ours?”